


One Punch: A History

by Holly1492



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Complete, F/M, Lemons, Post-War, Romance, post—hogwarts, romione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-29 05:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 58,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holly1492/pseuds/Holly1492
Summary: Thayer's words — "Came running to you, did she?" — struck a nerve because, well, she actually hadn't, but he wished like hell that she had. And they revealed that Thayer knew what probably everybody knew — everybody but Hermione, that is. Ron was at her command. Even now, after the war, after so much time in which he'd tried to forget by focusing on work, focusing on family, and even attempting occasionally to focus on other girls, she still ruled his heart. He doubted it would ever change. And he couldn't honestly say he regretted it.





	1. Chapter 1

_In my first fic,["All In,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10636839/chapters/23532432) I explored the question of what would have happened if Ron had worked up the nerve to speak of his feelings for Hermione before the Horcrux hunt. In this fic, I'll depict what might have taken place if Hermione hadn't kissed Ron in the Room of Requirement on the day of the Battle of Hogwarts. Enjoy!  
_

 

**Chapter 1**

It felt so good. Soooooooo good. Easily the most deeply satisfying, righteous feeling Ron had experienced in his life up until that moment. Ecstasy.

He watched as it happened, fascinated, almost as if his actions were being performed by another person. Which, in a way, they were. He was too blinded, too emotional, to fully occupy his body or account for his decisions. And so it unfolded, appearing before his eyes in ultra-slow-motion: his knuckles making contact with Thayer's cheekbone and then skidding across Thayer's face and slamming into the bridge of his nose, which emitted a deep and gravelly crunching sound, a sound that made the corners of Ron's lips curl upward. But it wasn't over yet. The flesh on Thayer's face, molding itself to the shape of Ron's knuckles, was already bruising, blood already gushing from the wound across his nose, as his head snapped backward and his mouth flew open in a contorted "O."

Ron put it all into that one punch, every ounce of pent-up frustration over everything — _everything_. Thayer, he knew, didn't deserve to pay the price for all of it, but he volunteered for the job with his actions that night.

Ron smiled as he pulled his fist away and Thayer staggered backward, gripping the side of his face with his hand.

"What the entire, actual, ever-loving fuck, Weasley?" Thayer bellowed as he tried to regain his balance.

"Don't," Ron growled lowly in reply. "Do. Not. Speak. Don't speak or you'll get another."

"Fuck you, arsehole," said Thayer, who was still stooped over and watching blood pour from his nostrils onto the linoleum floor of the Aurors locker room. "Let me guess … this is about Granger, eh? Came running to you, did she?"

Ron didn't hesitate, lunging forward at Thayer and toppling him to the ground, taking pleasure in watching the man's head thud against the floor. "I told you to shut your gob, you bastard," Ron said roughly, pulling himself back to his feet to stand over Thayer while pointing his finger toward Thayer's face, his chest heaving. "Shut up. Shut up and listen to me good. If you ever, _ever_ lay another finger on her, if you ever so much as look at her the wrong way, if you ever say _anything_ against her — no, check that — if you ever even _think_ something against her, you'll get this and more. Do you understand me?"

Thayer, still sprawled on the floor, nodded weakly.

"Good," said Ron. Then he turned and walked serenely out of the locker room and down the hall to the lifts that would take him to the Ministry atrium.

As he strode past the information desk and toward the Floo bank, it occurred to him that, weirdly and inexplicably, his whole life had led up to this moment. A long, intractable, inevitable, heartbreaking slide toward the now. How the fuck did it happen?

He'd catalogued the various pangs and aches in his chest so many times before, it wasn't difficult for him to summon the memories, and quickly.

There was the moment, of course, when he first realized that he fancied one of his best friends. She was Petrified and laid up in Madame Pomfrey's infirmary for weeks, weeks during which Ron would borrow Harry's invisibility cloak to sneak up to the hospital wing and visit her after curfew. He would sit by her bedside for hours just looking at her, holding her hand, speaking to her, though he doubted she knew he was there. He became aware, of course, that had it been Harry lying there — unmoving, unseeing — he would have been just as likely to want to visit him, to make him feel less alone. But there were other feelings that even Ron's second-year self knew went a bit deeper than that: the feeling that it was his job to look out for her somehow, the feeling that, if he could trade places with her, to lessen her suffering, he would in an instant. He wasn't so sure he would feel the need to do that for Harry, and that was when he started slowly to cotton on to what eventually became the most inescapable truth of his life: He was in love, hopelessly in love, with Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age. He, Ronald Weasley, the least-loved son in a poor and little-respected wizarding family, an indifferent student, a mid-grade athlete, a so-so looker, saw something in this fascinating, brilliant, maddening little firework of a girl — something he reckoned others would also see eventually, and when they did, there would go his chances of ever being more to her than one of her two best friends.

Misery. That's what it was. Misery and pining. And it went on and on.

He was far too young in second year to understand fully what he was feeling. But, looking back on it, he reckoned those nights spent in the hospital wing, gazing mutely at her still and silent form, admiring the moonlit slant of her nose, the arch of her eyebrow, the slope of her cheek without having to worry about being caught doing it, while she carried with her the answer to a seemingly unsolvable riddle … well, to his mind it fairly well summed up the entire arc of their relationship. Over the years, she would prove to be so tantalizing to him, always just within reach and yet so far away, and containing somewhere within her a secret, something she sometimes seemed ready to share with him — that is, until she would catch herself, pause to consider, and then retreat to that private place that he couldn't seem to reach.

In second year, of course, he didn't realize that these feelings simmering inside him were love. No, the pieces of the puzzle didn't fall into place for him until fourth year, when the Yule Ball rolled 'round. Even then, the idea took a while to take root, to truly saturate his consciousness but, when it did, it was like a gong sounding in his head, low and long. He was in love. With Hermione. Not infatuated. Not interested. Not smitten with, sweet on or hot for. In love. When it dawned on him, it was like he'd known it all his life, but somehow he didn't see it until it the possibility of doing something about it had been taken away from him, stolen by someone with whom he could never compete: an international Quidditch star.

He wasn't a _complete_ idiot — he realized she looked to him for certain things, relied on him even. But he chalked up the lingering looks, her habit of quite literally leaning on him in times of crisis, crying on his shoulder, slipping her hand into his in the darkness of a scary first night at Grimmauld Place, as fear-fueled spasms of emotion, the actions of a small but formidable person still struggling to understand a world so new to her, the instinctive desire that a girl might have for a brother in times of trouble. But he didn't think any of that amounted to love — not on her part, anyway. He didn't notice, of course, that Hermione never looked to Harry for any of those things but, even if he had, he would have found a way to explain it away in his own head as only natural. After all, she always seemed quite aware that Harry had plenty of problems of his own, didn't she.

There _was_ that one brief, shining moment during the final battle, though — a picture his mind always presented to him at times like this. It was that split-second in the Room of Requirement where she stood there gazing up at him, her chest heaving from exertion, her arms overflowing with Basilisk fangs, and looked at him as if she'd never, ever seen him quite so clearly before. The way her smile broadened, her eyes widened with surprise … he had been sure … he would have bet his life on it … that she was going to kiss him. But then a familiar flame of something that looked like doubt flickered in her eyes, and the spell was broken. She praised his work breaking in to the Chamber of Secrets — and he was chuffed about it — but he still felt let down, wished for something more. And then he immediately kicked himself for even imagining that she would want to kiss him. His actions on the Horcrux hunt, he reminded himself, had foreclosed any claim he might have on her affections. He was lucky she would still speak to him, much less kiss him. And there was a battle on, after all. More pressing matters that day forced his attention away from the girl of his dreams — but never for long.

Thayer's words — "Came running to you, did she?" — struck a nerve because, well, she actually hadn't, but he wished like hell that she had. And they revealed that Thayer knew what probably everybody knew — everybody but Hermione, that is. Ron was at her command. Even now, after the war, after so much time in which he'd tried to forget by focusing on work, focusing on family, and even attempting occasionally to focus on other girls, she still ruled his heart. He doubted it would ever change. And he couldn't honestly say he regretted it.

oooOOOooo

_Please review!  
_

_Cheers,_

_Holly._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

That moment in the Room of Requirement was so fleeting and yet, in the years that followed, Hermione found herself turning it over in her mind time and time again. She couldn't help but wonder what might have changed if she had followed her first instinct and planted an enormous kiss on Ron's lips when she first felt the impulse to do so.

What stopped her?

It certainly wasn't that so many people were watching because the truth was, for those few precious seconds, with the battle raging all around them, the world for Hermione had shrunk down to just her and Ron. Ronald Bilius Weasley. She couldn't take her eyes off him. His square jaw, his full lips, his muscular neck — these were features she had studied endlessly, though surreptitiously, for years. But his eyes, so deep and blue and rimmed with golden lashes, she had fewer chances to study over the years without being noticed. That day, however, as he spoke of saving the house elves, right on the heels of pulling off some deeply impressive magic and just generally being so … _Ron_ … she somehow felt emboldened to look at him directly, to take in his entire beautiful face in one long gaze, and her heart leapt in her chest. She loved him. It was the millionth time she'd thought it, probably, but the realization of just how deep it was … well, it took her breath away.

But then — maddeningly, cruelly — she remembered. She remembered all the times she'd tried in vain to get his attention. She remembered the times — too few times, she had to admit — when she had taken the risk of dressing up, wearing a little perfume, asking him to Slughorn's party, walking closer to him than an ordinary friend might as they strolled to Hogsmeade, hoping he'd really see her, hoping he'd acknowledge that she could be something other than a buddy, and she'd been disappointed. She remembered the times when he showed a preference for certain very, very fanciable blondes, and was reminded anew that she didn't measure up to any of them, and if she kissed him now, he'd kiss her back, certainly, but she'd never be sure that it was for the right reasons. In the heat of battle, a bloke will kiss any girl who throws herself into his arms, won't he?

Still, for that moment, she felt something there. She'd felt it before. Something reciprocal, like maybe this romance wasn't as one-sided as she so constantly believed. He'd saved her life after all — though he would deny it if she ever brought it up, she knew that it was he who threw himself into the fight at Malfoy Manor, who tried to get the Snatchers to leave her alone, who begged Bellatrix to take him instead, who ran to her when she was nearly crushed by that damned chandelier. Come to think of it, he'd always been protective of her, hadn't he, even somewhat ridiculously sometimes, like when he told Grawp to back off after he'd gotten more than a little, well, _handsy_ with her. Those bouts of protectiveness were what intrigued her most, because she knew that the first time Ronald Weasley had succeeded in making her heart thump loudly was all the way back in second year, when he defended her to Malfoy and wound up belching up slugs for his trouble.

That scene from second year was always a bittersweet memory for her, because he was indeed so damned adorable doing what he did, but she came to realize over time that it was the beginning of the Purgatory of loving him. Had her affection-starved heart misinterpreted his actions? After all, maybe what he did for her that day was what any friend would do for another. Maybe it was what any brother would do for a sister. She really didn't know, since she'd never had either. So she filled in the blanks and let her heart believe that what she'd already been feeling — a glimmer of attraction for her ginger-haired best friend — might be returned. It was the first day of what would be years of frustrated longing.

As they left the Room of Requirement and joined what would come to be called the Battle of Hogwarts, she told herself that she would follow up with Ron at some point later, that she owed it to herself to find out if he felt that current of electricity pass between them as she did. She thought maybe, if she asked him in a moment of peace and tranquility, he might admit that he experienced it, too. And maybe it would happen. Maybe, finally, she'd know what his lips felt like against hers.

But then, suddenly … Fred … the grief was overwhelming. And she realized that, if there was ever a time _not_ to ask about something so trivial as a would-be kiss, this was it. Ron was devastated. _All_ the Weasleys were. She couldn't bear to intrude on their sorrow.

And so, she stuffed it down, reckoning a better time would come. And it never did.

Which isn't to say that they weren't close in those days, weeks and months immediately following the war. She and Ron were together almost constantly. When he cried over Fred, it was usually on her shoulder. In the time leading up to the funeral, he was incredibly tender and vulnerable, and she felt that if she pressed the issue, she could easily have gotten what she wanted — a kiss, some closeness, maybe even a commitment. But it hardly seemed fair to even consider it. She knew that if she chose this time to try to deepen their connection, to fulfill her deepest wish to be his, she had an excellent chance of succeeding. But would it be genuine? She'd always have to wonder. There was such a rough nobility about Ron — it was one of the things she loved about him most — and she was confident that, once committed, Ron would follow through. His sense of decency would demand it, because she knew he was aware of how much he'd hurt her during the Lavender mess, and she knew he cared about her enough as a friend to try never to hurt her so badly again. But, is a man won under such circumstances really _won_?

Thoughts like these plagued her mind often that summer. They were ever-present when the trio Portkeyed to Australia to retrieve Hermione's parents. As she stood there, panicking inside the kitchen of Monica and Wendell Wilkins, convinced that she wasn't capable of undoing the spell she'd placed on Hugh and Eleanor, it was Ron who sought her out and reassured her.

"Hey," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder and tilting his head downward to draw her gaze. "You've got plenty of help here. And I don't mean me and Harry — we're bollocks at spells this intricate. But don't forget, the Australian minister sent that Spellbreaker Adina here with us for a reason, Hermione. This is what she does for a living. Let her help, all right?"

Hermione tilted her head up to look back at him, tears brimming in her eyes. She thought how easy it would have been to stand on tip-toe and brush her lips against his. Not because it would be the fulfillment of her schoolgirl crush on him, but because she so appreciated the comfort he offered. Even though he had single-handedly hurt her more than any one person ever had in her entire life, it was usually done unwittingly. And while he had the power to tear her heart to shreds, he also — more than anyone else — knew what it took to heal it. She sensed he had no idea that he possessed either ability. She thought a kiss might tell him, might communicate what she couldn't say with words but … again … not the right time. Harry, the Australian Aurors and her still-befuddled parents awaited them in the lounge.

Similar butterflies swirled in her chest on the night before the three of them were to part ways — Harry and Ron for Aurors' boot camp at St. Agnes Island, Hermione for Hogwarts, where she was to be head girl. After a large family dinner at the Burrow that included Hermione's parents, the foursome — Harry and Ginny, Hermione and Ron — took a midnight stroll through the meadow out back and down toward the pond, where Harry and Ginny made up an awkward excuse to press on and wander down to the treehouse, leaving Hermione and Ron sitting together on the pier, their toes dangling in the water.

"Those two," Ron said with a laugh, kicking his foot to churn the water beneath him. "They're about as subtle as an anvil to the head, aren't they?"

"Hmm," Hermione hummed from her spot about a foot down the pier from him. "It's their last night together for, what, two months? I suppose they want to get as much snogging time in as possible before the Hogwarts Express leaves in the morning. They'll miss each other."

A long silence followed in which they both tried not to imagine what Harry and Ginny were getting up to. Ron leaned back on his hands and looked up at the sky. Hermione, meanwhile, pressed her palms to the planks of the pier on each side of her legs and stared down into the water, noticing the reflection of the stars and the moon rippling on its black surface. A warm, humid breeze caressed them, moving her hair ever so slightly.

Those words — "they'll miss each other" — echoed in their minds. It occurred to both of them, simultaneously, that after tonight, they would be apart for very long stretches of time until Hermione graduated from Hogwarts and Harry and Ron graduated from Auror Academy next May. Harry and Ron's first leave from St. Agnes was two months away — fortunately scheduled to coincide with a Hogsmeade weekend — but two months seemed like an eternity. Ron wondered when was the last time he'd spent two months away from Hermione — and then he remembered, with a painful pang in his heart, that it would have been the time he abandoned them on the Horcrux hunt, and the memory of it made him itch to get up and run away, to go somewhere private and cry or scream or punch something. But he stayed where he was. He couldn't afford to squander even a minute of time with her that night. So he swallowed the lump in his throat and stayed silent, trying to satisfy himself with simply being near her. He thought he didn't deserve to do much more than sit next to her — remembering the night he turned his back on her and Apparated away from her on the hunt reminded him of that.

Hermione, meanwhile, wondered why he'd gone so quiet. Perhaps he felt uncomfortable out here alone with her in the darkness. Perhaps, she thought, just perhaps he worried that she might make a move of some sort, something that would force him to decide whether to play along and kiss her back, or maybe make an embarrassing attempt to let her down easy and explain that he didn't think of her that way. So she was a bit surprised when he spoke a few minutes later. It was at a low volume, but she heard it plainly.

"Uh, so, uh, you'll write now and then, yeah?" he said.

When she tore her eyes away from the water and looked back at him in surprise, he felt perhaps he ought to backpedal a bit. "I mean, to you know, to Harry and me. I hear there's not much in the way of entertainment down there at St. Agnes."

"Oh," she said, "of course. Yes. I'll write. You'll write too, yes? You and Harry, I mean."

"Oh yeah, absolutely," he replied.

She wanted to tell him how weird it was going to be to get on the Hogwarts Express without the two of them tomorrow morning, but she was afraid she couldn't do it without breaking down in tears, so stayed still and returned her eyes to the water. Before long, Ron yawned and they decided to head back up to the Burrow, reckoning Harry and Ginny would find their way back to the house in their own time.

The following morning, Ron and Harry were scheduled to Floo at dawn to the Ministry. Hermione, Ginny and Ron's parents were the only ones who got up early enough to pad down to the lounge in their pyjamas and bid them farewell. Ron hugged everyone before turning to her last. She looked up at him, his eyes shimmering with tears in the semi-darkness, and she couldn't hold it in any longer. She threw herself against his chest, sobbed, and measured the time it took before he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. It wasn't as long as she expected it to be. The feeling of his arms encircling her as she gripped him tightly around his middle … it was so warm, so right, and she found herself wishing it would last forever. He rested his cheek on the top of her head, and that only made her cry harder.

"It's all right," he whispered, rubbing his hands across her shoulderblades. "You take care of yourself up there, yeah? Anybody gives you any trouble, if anybody even so much as looks at you sideways, you Owl me and I'll come running, OK?"

All she could do was nod and then, too soon, they were pulling away from each other and recalling that there were four other people there staring at them. He picked up his rucksack and threw it over his shoulder.

"Love you," he said with a pause before adding, "everybody."

"We love you too, Ronnie," his Mum said, gripping his face in his hands. "Now, you'd better get going or you'll miss your Portkey to St. Agnes, dear."

He nodded and turned to face the fireplace. Harry jumped in first and shouted, "The Ministry Atrium," disappearing in a puff of green smoke. Then it was Ron's turn. He scanned the whole room with his eyes, stopping to give his Mum one more peck on the cheek, then lingered on Hermione's tear-streaked face.

His heart pounded. Hers, too. But neither knew.

Tearing his eyes from Hermione's, he grabbed a handful of Floo powder and, in another flash of green flames, he was gone.

oooOOOooo

_**I** hope you're enjoying this! Please review._

_Cheers,_

_Holly._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

She could hardly believe that, just a few hours into the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, she and Ron had managed to have an argument so nasty, so caustic that she found herself fleeing the Three Broomsticks in tears. As she laid face-down on the bed in the Head Girl's suite later that night, crying bitterly, she marveled that this was an evening that she'd ardently looked forward to for two entire months.

Ron had lived up to his word and had been a faithful correspondent during their separation, Owling Hermione a letter every day, though some were understandably brief, given how hard they were working him down there. She wrote to him just as diligently. Though they both kept to mundane matters — Hermione describing such things as the weight of the seventh-year courseload, Hagrid's latest doings, the progress of the reconstruction, and Ron describing the poor quality of the St. Agnes mess hall food, the drill instructor's grating voice, the lumpiness of his bunk — it wasn't lost on Hermione that Ron wrote every single day, while Harry only managed to get an Owl to her once or twice a week at most. She chalked this disparity up to the fact that Harry probably spent whatever little free time and energy he had writing to Ginny. But still … the fact that Ron wrote every day lit a spark of hope in her, and her heart fluttered every morning when Owls arrived in the Great Hall to deliver her daily word from Ron.

Their correspondence, however prosaic, helped to build their mutual anticipation of this long-awaited reunion. And then, in the course of a few hours, it had all gone up in smoke.

Even in her upset state, she acknowledged to herself that Ron deserved some small measure of credit for at least following her out of the Three Broomsticks and calling to her as she hurried down the lane toward Hogwarts. But she was so enraged, so hurt by his previous words and actions that she paid him little heed. As he called her name, she turned to Apparate away toward the gates of Hogwarts, pausing only long enough to notice how truly stunning he was, standing there in the warm, pale light pouring out of the windows of the Broomsticks. His brow was creased in agitation, his golden-red hair glinted in the candlelight. He stood with his long, bony hands gripping his hips, as if ready to scream more angry words in her direction, but she was momentarily distracted by the shape of his forearms — so muscular now after two months of intensive training at St. Agnes — peeking out from beneath his rolled up shirtsleeves in the cold night air.

"Hermione!" he shouted. And that snapped her out of her reverie, prompting her to turn on the spot and disappear.

How had it all gone so pear-shaped? She knew it was a mistake to arrive at the pub with Cameron Daniels, but that couldn't really be helped, could it? He was a classmate, after all, and he had tagged along as she and a large group of other seventh-years trundled out of the castle and toward the village earlier that night. In truth, she had barely even noticed that Cameron was there, so enthralled was she with the idea of seeing Ron again. Well, Ron _and_ Harry, but … truth be told, she knew Harry would be entirely swept up in visiting with Ginny, and she'd be fortunate if she got even five minutes with him before the two lovebirds skulked off to a quiet corner of the Three Broomsticks to catch up on lost time.

She'd spent the better part of the day thinking about what she would wear and how she would do her hair — all the while cursing herself for caring about such girly things. But it couldn't be helped. As she slipped on her favorite, form-fitting red jumper, a pair of perfectly faded jeans and knee-high suede boots, pausing to apply just a smidgen of makeup, she stepped back and had to admit she was pleased with the results — even as she pondered how _he_ might look, what changes the famed Auror Academy training regimen might bring about in her favorite ginger's already-fit physique.

When they arrived at the pub, she wasn't disappointed. Ron, if it was possible, was even more gorgeous than the last time she'd seen him. She wasn't completely blind — she knew Ron was no Adonis. But, to her, he was physical perfection personified, and his two months at St. Agnes had only accentuated his best attributes. His shoulders were broader, his arms more muscular, his cheekbones more pronounced.

She had noticed him in the crowd before he noticed her, and she was glad, because she was overtaken with a bout of butterflies at the sight of him. But before she had a chance to really calm herself, he caught her eye, his face lighting up with that broad, white, off-center smile that she loved so much, and he began to bob and weave through the crowd to meet her in the middle of the packed barroom. She knew she must have been smiling just as broadly because she was vaguely aware that her cheeks ached slightly — and she realized that she'd probably been smiling like that ever since she left the castle.

She and Ron were within arm's reach of one another when both paused briefly, taking each other in, before she leapt at him and wrapped her arms around his middle, squeezing tight, her cheek pressed firmly against his chest.

She couldn't speak. In retrospect, she realized that he hadn't spoken either. They just stood there like a couple of nutters, squeezing each other tight, surrounded by a large and boisterous crowd.

Eventually, though, reality intruded. Even during the war, Hermione had rarely had the urge to hex someone so much as she did when Cameron Daniels walked up to her at this moment and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Hey, Mione, should I order you a butterbeer?" Cameron said.

Ugh.

Somewhat taken aback, Ron lifted his head from where it had been resting atop Hermione's and gave Cameron the once-over. He wondered who the hell this bloke was. He wondered why he was offering to buy Hermione a drink — apparently ignoring the fact that she was standing at the moment inside another bloke's sodding arms, for Merlin's sake. And he wondered why in the hell this guy was calling her Mione. Wasn't that _Ron's_ special name for Hermione, after all? What the buggering fuck was going on?

When Ron straightened himself up to his full height, that's when he noticed that this blighter was actually pretty damned good-looking. Black hair, grey eyes, chiseled features, straight nose … the kind of guy the girls go nuts for. As Hermione made awkward introductions, Ron came to learn that Mr. Shoulder-Tapper was in Ravenclaw, of all things — a Ravenclaw … well, that's just great … a smart one like Mione, Ron thought — and he decided he just didn't like the cut of this guy's jib.

Cameron offered to buy Ron a drink as well, but Ron merely said "no thanks" rather abruptly, creating an uncomfortable pause before Cameron sidled away to get Hermione her butterbeer.

That left Ron and Hermione standing a foot apart — Ron watching Cameron's retreating form in the crowd, Hermione looking at Ron's face in bewilderment.

"So, you and Cameron spend a lot of time together?" Ron said with a snarl, still not looking at Hermione.

"Cameron? No," Hermione said a bit too enthusiastically to cover up her nervousness. "Well, I mean, not really. I mean, yes, we spend time together — he's a prefect, so I sort of supervise him and the other prefects as Head Girl and all. And yes, we're in a lot of the same classes, so we sometimes revise together in the Library. But, erm…"

"Hmm," was all Ron could say.

"We all came down from the castle together," Hermione continued, realizing that she was now beginning to lapse into nervous babble. "The Patils, Luna, Ginny, Dean, Seamus, Cameron … a big group of us … I didn't—"

"How come I don't remember _Cameron_ " — Ron said, placing sarcastic emphasis on every syllable of his name — "from before the war?"

He turned his gaze back to Hermione and the steely look in his eyes rather unnerved her. She couldn't explain why she was so nervous all of a sudden. She just … was.

"Well, Cameron's family fled Britain during the first war — his Mum's a muggle, you see, and so his Dad decided that the family would be safer living in Canada," Hermione began to explain. "When Voldemort was defeated, they decided to come to Britain. Cameron's Mum's parents are getting on in age, and they wanted to be nearer, so—"

"Told you his whole life story, did he?" Ron interrupted.

"No, I just—"

At that moment, Cameron returned with Hermione's drink as well as with Dean and Seamus in tow. "Weasley! Where have you been hiding, mate?" said Seamus, slapping Ron on the back. "Did you just get here?"

"Huh?" Ron said, still glowering at Hermione. "Uh, no, Harry and I Flooed in about an hour ago."

"Holy hell, Ron, Gryffindor could have used you in goal this year," said Dean. "We got slaughtered by Ravenclaw last week. It was some ugly, ugly quidditch."

"Shit, no uglier than Puddlemere's gotten up to this season," said Seamus, and soon, Ron was swallowed up in a deep quidditch argument with his former roommates, leaving Hermione standing off to the side with her butterbeer, utterly dejected.

The truth was, Ron wasn't wrong to detect a rival in Cameron. Hermione certainly never encouraged him, but Cameron had been actively vying for her regard ever since the first day of school, and he could sometimes be rather forward about it — just happening to bump into her in the Library and inviting himself to sit at her study table, timing his meals in the Great Hall to coincide with hers, that sort of thing. Just last week, he'd shown up at her door bearing flowers, which she accepted as graciously as possible while quickly making up an excuse to run to Hagrid's hut on a completely bogus errand. She had to admit that she had been flattered by the quite obvious attention — Cameron was indeed good-looking, intelligent, charming and kind. But he could never replace Ron in Hermione's heart, and she wasn't interested in even letting him try.

"Hungry?" Cameron said, tearing Hermione from her thoughts.

She was, actually — it was dinnertime, after all — but she wondered if the sight of her allowing Cameron to buy her a sandwich would somehow annoy Ron more than he already was. Ron, for his part, had turned his back fully on her, and gave every appearance of being completely absorbed in a fairly loud but friendly argument with Dean and Seamus over the relative merits of the Cannons' starting five vs. Puddlemere's. His decision to ignore her stung at first, but then it annoyed her — and she had to ask herself why she should stand there and starve while a perfectly friendly chap was offering to fetch her a sandwich. So she gave Cameron a nod and followed him to the bar, where they each ordered a corned beef and another round of butterbeer from Madam Rosmerta.

Their departure didn't go unnoticed by Ron — though he certainly made every effort not to let her catch him following her with his eyes.

He observed that Hermione kept her distance from Cameron, which made him happier than he reckoned he deserved to feel. But he also noticed, as Hermione and her new admirer fell into conversation at the other side of the barroom with Luna, Neville, and a circle of prefects, that Cameron quite openly admired Hermione, feasting his eyes on her at every opportunity. Not that she wasn't worth feasting on — Ron nearly tripped over his feet when he first saw her across the room earlier that evening looking beyond lovely in a scarlet top that brought out the rosiness in her cheeks and contrasted so becomingly with her dark hair and eyes. The time back at Hogwarts, immersed in study, with plenty of rest and good house-elf food, had clearly undone much of the damage the war had done to her. Her skin was glowing again, her eyes sparkling. Gods, she was beautiful.

And this guy clearly understood just how much.

It went on like this for another hour or so — Hermione talking to a circle of people she'd rather not spend her evening with, and Ron doing the same. Hermione grew increasingly frustrated with this turn of events, hardly attending to the conversation around her as she watched Ron banter about quidditch with Seamus, Dean and a gaggle of sixth years. Eventually, she found an excuse to break away from her group and cross the room to approach Ron again.

She stood next to him. She knew he had to have been aware she was there — that is, unless he'd somehow completely lost all of his peripheral vision. But he barely flinched. It was Seamus, actually, who drew her into the conversation, jokingly asking her why she seemed so interested in the league's new rules limiting the number of penalty shots. Everyone laughed including — rather too loudly — Ron.

"Maybe you ought to go ask your boyfriend what he thinks of the new rule," Ron said cuttingly.

Hermione could feel her face grow hot.

"My boyfriend?" she replied.

"Yeah, he's right over there," Ron said, nodding his head in Cameron's direction. "I'm sure he's got an opinion on the subject."

"If you're talking about Cameron, he's not my boyfriend," she replied bracingly.

"He'd like to be."

"Be that as it may, he's _not_."

Neither Ron nor Hermione noticed that Dean, Seamus and the sixth years had slowly retreated from them, sensing a blowup ahead.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Harry begin to wind his way through the crowd. Had he noticed that a row was about to erupt? For a second, she thought twice about saying or doing anything that might upset or embarrass Harry, but before she could calm herself down or think more clearly, Ron was back at it. Where he had been completely ignoring her before, she now had his full attention. It just wasn't the kind she was hoping for.

"You know, Hermione, you wrote how many letters over the course of the past two months — sixty? Seventy? You'd think that just once, in any one of those letters, you could have found room to fit in that you'd taken up with a bloke from Ravenclaw," Ron spat.

"Taken up with a bloke?" Hermione sputtered? "Are you serious? What part of 'he's not my boyfriend' do you not understand, Ronald?"

"Hermione, the guy walks in here hanging all over you, interrupts you while you're greeting an old friend, gives me a handshake like a fricking vise, buys you drinks, buys you dinner, stares at you the entire time — if he's not your bloody boyfriend, then what is he? Or are you just getting used to the feeling of having a lot of lapdogs at your beck and call?"

This last statement hit Hermione with all the force of a fist. She was reeling. Is that what he thought — that she regarded him as a … a … a lapdog?

She stood there, her mouth agape, shaking her head ever so slowly … and then she saw Harry approach, his brow knitted in concern. She couldn't cope. All she could think to do was to turn on her heels and escape — and quickly — before she said or did something so humiliating as crying. So that's what she did.

Ron, meanwhile, stood in the street outside the Broomsticks, staring mutely at the spot where she had turned and disappeared just seconds before.

Holy fuck, how the hell had this entire night gone so miserably wrong? He'd fantasized about it for months — how he'd get to hug her, even briefly, when he arrived … how he'd get a chance to study her face again, look into her eyes … how he'd yearned to hear how she was really doing, to judge for himself whether she was really faring as well as she said she was in her letters.

Her letters had been so sweet. She'd gone on and on when he told her that he was head of his class at St. Agnes — her enthusiasm was infectious and made him feel ten feet tall. With every page he read, every note he took, every exam he aced, he thought of her and decided that he owed her a huge debt of gratitude for teaching him how to study — though he was certainly reluctant to learn back at Hogwarts. But the fact that he was doing well at St. Agnes was as much her triumph as his — and the truth was, he ached to make her proud.

While she had been so effusive in her praise of his work at St. Agnes, he had allowed himself to imagine things that, in retrospect, he reckoned he shouldn't have. So when she showed up with another guy — a guy who clearly had designs on her, the kind of guy who could probably give her what she deserved, be what he could never be — it hurt. Badly.

But that didn't make it right to take it out on her, did it? Of course not — and he knew it. God damn it. And yet he couldn't help being angry. Was she completely oblivious to his feelings? Did it matter to her? Maybe he should stop punishing himself by trying to hard to be her friend. Maybe it just wasn't worth the heartache. He had to admit the lapdog comment was mean — and he meant it to hurt her — but wondered sometimes if that's what he was to her. In calmer moments, he knew that was a ridiculous idea, but at times like this …

He turned back toward the door of the Broomsticks to see Harry standing there, his hands in his pockets.

"Well done, mate," Harry said angrily. "Well fucking done."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

No amount of coaxing from Ginny could persuade Hermione to come back down to Hogsmeade the next day, no matter how much she emphasized that the boys had rented a room above the Three Broomsticks with the express purpose of spending as much time with the two of them as possible and both were really hoping to visit with her again before they had to Apparate back to St. Agnes on Sunday morning. Ginny played the Harry card hard, figuring Hermione's desire to see the closest thing she had to a brother might overrule her quite understandable fury with Ron. Ginny quickly realized she had underestimated just how hurt Hermione truly was.

Hermione knew that all she needed to do was remain steadfast and say no enough times over breakfast and Ginny would eventually give up, since she no doubt was eager to get down to Hogsmeade herself to make the most of her time with Harry. When Ginny gave up and left the Great Hall to traipse toward the front doors of the castle, Hermione gathered her books and headed toward the Astronomy Tower, the only place in the castle she reckoned Cameron wouldn't look for her as he made his way down to Hogsmeade for the day. She figured she could read there rather comfortably for a few hours if she cast a warming charm. The fact that the Tower also afforded a clear view of Hogsmeade Village had nothing to do with her choice of study locations — or so she told herself.

Ron, for his part, was nursing a nasty hangover, drinking a virgin Bloody Mary at the bar at the Three Broomsticks and trying his best to distract himself with that morning's Daily Prophet. Harry was barely speaking to him, which made for an awkward night in the little room they'd rented upstairs. Ginny's arrival did nothing to improve the mood.

"Good job, Ronniekins. Hermione is taking a pass on her Hogsmeade Saturday, and I can hardly think of anyone who needed a restful, enjoyable weekend more than she did," Ginny said scathingly as she took the barstool between Ron and Harry and leaned over to give Harry a quick peck on the cheek.

"She's not coming down?" Harry said with a frown.

"No, she's not. Hermione plans to study all day. And it's all thanks to this prat," Ginny said, pointing her thumb in Ron's direction.

"Wait, is that what she said? She's not coming because of me?" Ron grumbled.

Ginny shook her head. "Not in so many words, no. But I'm not as stupid as you might think I am, Ronald. She Apparated away from here in tears after having an argument with you, and now she's not coming back. I can put two and two together."

"Oi, that's hardly my fault," Ron muttered into his Bloody Mary. "I mean, this is a small village, but it's not _that_ small. If she'd wanted to come down here without seeing me, it could have been arranged."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "I give up, Ron, I really do. That kind of thinking is clearly working out beautifully for you. Keep it up, brother." Then she turned to Harry. "Are you ready to get out of here?"

"Absolutely," said Harry in disgust, slapping a few galleons on the bar, taking Ginny by the arm and leading her out of the pub and into the bright morning sunshine.

Ron squinted as he tried to follow them down the street with his eyes — an action that only made his head throb a bit harder. His heart throbbed, too, as he watched Harry slip his arm around Ginny's shoulder and pull her close as they strolled down the sidewalk toward Scrivenshaft's, and a tide of envy rose and nearly swept Ron away. He was utterly miserable. He had also drained his Bloody Mary. When Madame Rosmerta passed by, he motioned for a refill, propped his elbows onto the bar, and held his forehead in his hands.

A few minutes later, the bell above Rosmerta's door rang, signaling someone was entering. Though Ron was the only one at the bar at the moment — and he knew he was quite a sight, with his hair mussed, still wearing the same shirt he'd worn the previous night — he didn't bother to look up to see who was joining him. That is, until she spoke to him.

"Um, you're Ron Weasley, aren't you?" said a silky female voice.

Ron was growing accustomed to being recognized since the war but, still, it was a rare thing that someone would approach him directly. So he was a bit surprised when he raised his eyes and saw that the speaker was a tall and shapely blonde with big blue eyes and — well, it was tough not to notice, but she was fairly well-endowed.

Ron straightened up slowly on his barstool and nodded. "Erm, yeah … I mean, yes, I am. Ron Weasley." Talking, he discovered, took more of an effort than normal, and his head still felt like it was stuffed with wet cement. Rosmerta must have noticed his stupor, because she suddenly appeared opposite Ron on the other side of the bar and slid a mug full of anti-hangover potion toward him. "This should take the edge off, young man," Rosmerta said with a wink before retreating to Levitate a set of freshly washed bar glasses onto the shelves behind her.

"Oh, um, may I?" the blonde said to Ron, timidly pointing to the seat next to his.

She was sitting before Ron could reply, and looking up at him with a bright smile. "I'm here to meet some friends from Hogwarts, and I reckon I got here a bit earlier than I expected," she said. "I hope you don't mind the company."

"Uh, no … don't mind at all," said Ron, who was feeling marginally better after drinking Rosmerta's foul-smelling potion, though his eyes still felt scratchy and his stomach remained a bit on the sour side.

"Oh, how rude of me," the girl chirped, sending a sharp pain through Ron's hangover-tender eardrums. "My name is Cecilia Middlebrooks," she said, extending a hand to Ron, which he shook out of politeness. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Weasley. I'm a big fan. Have been for years, but I'm guessing you don't remember me."

Remember her? Umm … Ron reflexively raised his hand to the back of his neck and searched his memory, coming up blank.

Cecilia read his expression and filled in the blanks for him. "Oh, I wouldn't expect you to have noticed me when you were at Hogwarts. I was two years behind you, in Hufflepuff. But I certainly noticed you," she said, wiggling a bit in her seat.

Blimey, Ron thought, this girl's coming on to me. In all his years, he couldn't think of a time this had happened — other than Lavender, of course, and he shuddered at the memory of what that particular flirtation had wrought. "Umm, so, you're back at Hogwarts this year?"

"Oh yes, my parents felt it was important that I finish up, though I honestly didn't agree with them. I could easily have stayed at home and continued my studies from there," she said.

"Oh, well, uh … what do you study?" Ron said, trying his best to stay focused despite the queasy feeling that still rocked his insides.

"Domestic Magic," she said.

Huh? Ron realized his mental gears were slipping this morning, but he wasn't really familiar with that particular academic track at Hogwarts. Unbeknownst to him, that was because he was a very unlikely candidate for that course of study, being as it was devoted to the exploration of all magic related to the careful, prudent and efficient running of a wizarding home.

Instead, he merely nodded and wondered if Rosmerta had anymore of that hangover potion. He was beginning to think another dose might do him good.

And that's when the bell over the door tinkled again, and in strode Cameron Daniels.

"Hey, Ron," Cameron said amiably as he crossed the room. "Hi, Cecilia," he added with a nod. "Have either of you seen Hermione this morning?"

Cecilia merely shook her head, while Ron groaned and wondered if this weekend was a nightmare from which he simply couldn't shake himself awake.

"Why do you ask?" Ron growled, looking Cameron up and down.

Cameron, for his part, didn't seem to notice Ron's foul mood — or, at least, he didn't let on that he did. For while Hermione had described Cameron as a kind person — and he most certainly could be — he was still a human being, a human being in love, and human beings in love, even the kindest ones, will sometimes do despicable things.

"Oh, the two of us had talked about meeting up here today," Cameron said, looking about the room nonchalantly. "You know, thought we might take in the town together, though I'd rather wander out to the old bridge, if you know what I mean," wiggling his eyebrows conspiratorially at Ron because he knew full well what every Hogwarts alum knew — the old bridge was a prime makeout spot for Hogwarts students on leave for a Hogsmeade weekend, and had been for centuries.

Ron gagged slightly and considered, just for a millisecond, what might happen if he were to kick Cameron Daniels in the shin. But he didn't. He was already in deep enough shit with Hermione — though, as that thought passed through his head, he had to stop and wonder why she had so adamantly denied the previous night that Cameron was her boyfriend. Had she lied? Ron didn't think she would do such a thing, but then … what the buggering hell. All he really knew was that his head hurt.

"So, um, if you see Mione," Cameron said, savoring the way Ron openly cringed at his use of that endearment, "just tell her I'm off to Scrivenshaft's, OK? Or, well, maybe you shouldn't. I was going to get her a little something there. You know how wild she is for quills and parchment. Just tell her I'll meet her at Madame Puddifoots at noon."

And, with that, Cameron turned on his heels and strolled out of the pub, leaving Ron to order up a second round of anti-hangover potion and then excuse himself to return to his bedroom.

That night, when Cameron inevitably tracked down Hermione in the Great Hall for dinner, he made a point of mentioning that he interrupted Ron chatting with Cecilia Middlebrooks at the Three Broomsticks that morning. If he happened to exaggerate how near they were sitting to one another, or how closely Ron was hanging on her every word, he told himself that he couldn't really take the blame. After all, all's fair in love and war, isn't it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

And so it went. Ron spent the rest of that morning in his room recovering from his hangover, and then shuffled out to the streets of Hogsmeade at just before noon half hoping to run into Hermione and half dreading it. Of course, he _didn't_ see her — he made a point of wandering past Madame Puddifoot's a number of times during the noon hour and looking in just to be sure. By 2 or 3 in the afternoon, he was quite convinced that Cameron was full of shit. He kicked himself for even halfway believing that crap he was dishing about him and Hermione. How could he be so gullible?

Well, he knew how. He was an idiot.

That didn't stop Ron from finding ways to ask people if they had happened to see Hermione that day. He tried to be subtle about it, though he was quite sure that the people who knew him best — Dean, Seamus, Neville, Luna, Parvati, Padma — had all seen right through him. To a person, though, none of them had seen Hermione anywhere near Hogsmeade that day, and Seamus, who arrived at in town later than he'd hoped to because he had to serve a detention for getting back to Gryffindor Tower past curfew the night before, reported that he bumped into Hermione in the hallway outside the Head Students' suite before he left the castle. She apparently told Seamus she was planning to take a nap.

This news lifted Ron's spirits, but only temporarily.

He spent the rest of the evening holding up a corner of the bar at the Broomsticks, then poured himself into bed, quite drunk, later that night. He and Harry were scheduled to Portkey back to St. Agnes at 10 o'clock Sunday morning, giving them only enough time to have breakfast with Ginny in town before taking off. When she arrived, Ginny pointedly told Harry that Hermione sent him her love and promised she would write. She conveyed no such message for Ron. Ron's heart sank. He didn't completely realize until that moment that he'd been hoping against hope that Hermione would show up with Ginny for breakfast. Despite his best efforts to keep it down, he harbored a glimmer of hope that she'd appear, right up until the very last minute when he and Harry had to grab the old hub cap that served as their Portkey and return to camp.

Ron was stone-faced and silent over breakfast, but on the walk to the Portkey afterward, he worked up the energy to raise with Ginny the subject that now plagued his mind.

"So, Gin, erm," he mumbled, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets as they strolled along toward the meadow outside of town. "Is, um, is Hermione dating that Daniels bloke or what?"

Ginny, tucked between Harry and her big brother as they walked the path out of town, looked at him out the corner of her eye and, despite how angry she was at him, she couldn't quite find it in her heart to punish him — and she knew that if she let him go on believing that there was something between Hermione and Cameron, it would be punishment indeed. Ron could be maddening — and he certainly acted like a berk all weekend — but he was still her brother, and she loved him. So she decided to tell him the truth.

"Honestly, Ronald, there is _nothing_ going on between Hermione and Cameron — and believe me, I've asked," Ginny said.

She expected this statement to lighten Ron's expression somewhat, but he only grimaced and kicked a rock in his path quite violently.

"Then I don't get it," Ron said, louder than he'd spoken all morning. "That git told me yesterday that he and Hermione were meeting for lunch at Madame Puddifoots, that they planned to spend the day together. Why would he do that?"

Ginny rolled her eyes, but she had to admit, it was admirable that such a cheap tactic as lying to a rival would never occur to Ron.

"Ron, I said there's nothing going on between Hermione and Cameron," Ginny explained, trying not to let her irritation come through in her voice — because she knew her frustration could only spark a row. "That doesn't mean that Cameron isn't trying, however. He's had his sights set on Hermione — flowers, candy, the whole bit — ever since the first day of term. She thinks he's nice enough, but she's told me that she thinks he's a little boring. In fact, lately she's been actively trying to avoid him, but that hasn't stopped him yet. Think about it, brother. He was trying to throw you off, that's all. And apparently it worked."

Ron tore his rucksack from his back and threw it as far as he could into the meadow. "That tosser," he muttered. "I should have kicked him in the shin when I had the chance."

"OK, Cameron's a tosser," said Harry, who had barely said more than two words at a time to Ron since Friday night. "That doesn't change the fact that you were a tosser too, mate — and you've got some serious apologizing to do to Hermione. Cameron's the least of your problems."

Ron dropped his head and looked at his trainers, his shoulders slumped. "You're right. I know you're right. Shit."

"You'll think of something, brother," said Ginny soothingly, reaching over to hug him. "But you two have to go now or that Portkey is going to expire."

Ron went to retrieve his rucksack, giving Ginny and Harry time for one last kiss in semi-privacy.

"Tell her … tell her … oh hell, I don't know what to ask you to tell her, Gin," Ron said as he and Harry approached the hub cap.

"Don't worry, we'll talk it over, she and I," said Ginny. "We always do. Try not to worry. I'll write and let you know if there's news, OK? See you at Christmas, boys."

Ron felt a weak smile come to his lips and gave Ginny one last hug. Then he and Harry picked up the hub cap and were gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Ron discovered just how badly he had effed things up with Hermione when he returned to St. Agnes Island and observed, in the coming weeks, that she found time to write regularly — though certainly not daily — to Harry. The tawny Hogwarts Owl that he had come to expect every morning carrying word from Hermione? Well, those days were over.

Errol, for his part, flew down now and then bearing care packages from his Mum. George would write occasionally to trade speculation about the Cannons' off-season trading prospects. A Hogwarts Owl did bring a letter to him one cold spring morning, and Ron's heart leapt in his chest at the sight of it, only to sink when he realized it was merely a note from Hagrid asking how everything was going with Ron and Harry in training and dropping hints the size of quaffles that they ought to write more often.

Hagrid's note actually wasn't entirely random. He had noticed that Hermione was, well, not so much down as lifeless — working hard as usual, but taking little joy in it. Her marks were stellar - no surprise there - her performance as Head Girl was without equal in Hogwarts history, but her eyes lacked their usual sparkle of discovery, curiosity and zest — and the entire faculty noticed it.

Hagrid and McGonagall suspected strongly that the reason was that Hermione had had a falling out with a certain ginger-haired young man, but neither quite felt it was their place to broach the subject.

Ginny, of course, had no such compunctions, but that didn't mean she had any better success trying to sort out exactly what Hermione was feeling or how to fix what had been broken between her and her erstwhile best friend.

"Ginny, it's complicated," Hermione said in exasperation one night just a week before Christmas as the two of them sipped tea by the hearth in her Head Girl's suite. "And I don't want to talk about it."

"Come on, Hermione, don't give me that," Ginny huffed. "You've been sporting the longest face ever since the last Hogsmeade weekend — you know you have, don't deny it — and it's pretty clear that you're miserable."

Hermione straightened in her seat. "Miserable? That's absurd," she sputtered. "What do I have to be miserable about? My Spellwriting practicum has been totally absorbing — I'm just loving it, and I might have a chance to travel to France next semester to do an independent study under Madame DuPres. Professor Vector wants to talk with me tomorrow about an Arithmancy book project that she'd like to co-author with me. And after all that worry about how my parents would cope with coming back from Australia, I can honestly say that they're doing brilliantly and we're closer than ever. I've got wonderful friends all around me here at Hogwarts — you, Neville and Luna for starters, and Hagrid, of course. Professor McGonagall has spent so much time and energy mentoring me this term, and I really appreciate it. Kingsley has offered me a position as his special attache for policy as soon as I graduate. Madame Pince has given me keys to the Library so I can come and go at my leisure, even after hours. Crookshanks is loving the Head Girl suite and having his run of the castle. On top of all that, the war is over. No one is trying to jinx, hex, chase, Crucio or kill me — not anymore. I can sleep in a real bed, not a bunk. I can eat food prepared by well-treated house elves, not mushrooms and dandelion greens. I'm safe. I'm busy. I'm far from miserable, Ginny. Far from it."

Ginny listened to all this coolly. Of course, Hermione's inventory of her life was perfectly valid. But it was far from the full story, and Ginny knew it.

"That's wonderful, Hermione, and I'm glad," Ginny said from over her teacup. "But I've just got to ask: How's your love life?"

Hermione laughed — a little too vigorously to come across as completely genuine. "A love life? Who on Earth has time for a love life? I barely have time to see you lately, and you're my best girlfriend."

"There's always time for a love life," Ginny replied. "That is, if you really _want_ one."

Hermione blew a puff of air through her lips and grimaced. "Honestly, Ginny, if I wanted to, I could be going out on dates. I don't mean to sound full of myself — but realistically, yes, if I put some effort into it, I think I could. But I'm simply not interested in that right now. I told Cameron Daniels to shove off when I found out what he'd done to R—"

Hermione stopped herself before she could complete that statement. She absolutely, positively did not want to talk with Ginny about Ron under any circumstances.

She was still piping hot over Ron's behavior that weekend, even though it was many weeks ago by then. Despite her anger at Ron, she was livid when Ginny told her weeks earlier how Cameron had lied to Ron, and Cameron hadn't bothered to deny it. Cameron chose that moment to proclaim that he fancied Hermione like mad and to ask her to be his girlfriend, proving to Hermione's mind that he had seriously misjudged the girl he claimed to have fallen for. After reading him the riot act about dishonesty, cruelty, and how much she resented that he went out of his way to hurt one of her very closest friends, she told him that she never wanted to see or hear from him again. This wish proved impossible for Cameron to fulfill, since they were in the same classes together for most of the day, but when he did come across Hermione, he gave her a very wide berth. And she was glad. Prior to that ill-fated Hogsmeade weekend, she merely found Cameron occasionally annoying and mildly boring, though sweet enough. She couldn't ignore that he was easy on the eyes — quite easy — and she had been flattered by his attentions. But after all this madness, she had no use for him. Weeks later, when the sting of Hermione's rejection had begun to wear off, Cameron reckoned he was quite certain Ron had no idea how lucky he was to have such a faithful friend in Hermione, and he couldn't help but envy him. He also realized that he had discovered the reason why Hermione had been sorted into Gryffindor and not Ravenclaw. Unafraid of confrontation, Hermione was loyal to a fault — and that fault was stubbornness.

It was that stubbornness that powered Hermione through the months leading up to Christmas. For while she had given Cameron a piece of her mind, that certainly didn't mean she was prepared to forgive Ron — and every time she was tempted to, his "lap dog" comment echoed in her brain, and she got angry all over again.

She tried her best not to show she was miserable. She stayed active. She wrote to Harry religiously — never once inquiring about Ron. She took advantage of McGonagall's offer to let her Floo to her parents' house at Cambridge on weekends. But mostly, she threw herself into her work and, as a result, she excelled even by her unusually high standards.

Improbably, this was one thing that she and Ron shared in common during this season of discord. He certainly didn't try nearly as hard as Hermione did to present a placid face to the world — in fact, he was downright forlorn at times, and frequently irritable. But he attacked his work at St. Agnes with a vengeance, and soon was light years beyond anyone else in his class — even Harry. He hoped and prayed that he would have a chance to see her face-to-face at Christmas. He reckoned that's what it would take to set things right between them because, try as he might, he just couldn't seem to find a way to put his thoughts on paper. And he did try. But every letter he wrote wound up shredded, crumpled or burnt in frustration before he even thought to send it. Because the fact of the matter was, there simply was no excuse for the way he behaved that weekend — nothing he could say to explain it other than to confess that he was madly in love with her, and the thought of her even so much as holding another bloke's hand made him so mental that he couldn't see straight. But he felt he really couldn't say that to her, certainly not in a letter, certainly not after how much he'd bollixed things up, even though there were times when he wondered if she might know, deep down, how he felt.

He couldn't be the best at everything, but he was going to aim to be the best Auror he could be. If that brought him a little closer to the mark, made him a little bit more like the kind of man that she deserved, then he was going to try his damnedest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Ron didn't get his wish that Christmas. Sure, he got a new Weasley jumper, and his Mum stuffed him with treacle tarts and mince pies. But what was already destined to be a bittersweet Christmas — the first since the end of the war, but also the first without Fred — was rendered downright gloomy by the absence of Hermione.

She had been at the Burrow, actually. In fact, she and Ginny traveled down from school together on the Hogwarts Express and Hermione stayed for two days at the beginning of the holiday. Hermione felt it was important to spend time with Molly and Arthur, knowing they would appreciate the company and the comfort in this difficult holiday season. And they did, of course. Molly and Hermione spent hours together baking, chatting and sipping tea around the kitchen table, though they rarely discussed directly the topics that were foremost on both of their minds — how much they missed Fred, how worried they were for George, and just what could be done about the rift between Ron and Hermione. Even so, both Molly and Arthur appreciated that Hermione took time from her holiday to visit before she took off for Cambridge to spend the rest of the holiday with her own parents.

Harry and Ron weren't scheduled to come home on leave from St. Agnes until Christmas Eve morning, at which point Hermione was long gone.

Ron tried to hide his disappointment when he learned that Hermione had left nothing for him — no gift, no card, no note, no greeting. He forced a smile to his face throughout Christmas Eve and Christmas Day for his mother's benefit, but his heart really wasn't in it, and Harry, of course, noticed.

In fact, Harry had begun to think that Hermione was taking the silent treatment a bit too far. Yes, Ron was a horse's arse back in Hogsmeade, but that was a long time ago — and aren't best friends supposed to forgive and forget at some point? Though he had always been loath to get involved in whatever _this_ was between Ron and Hermione, he realized that it might be time for an intervention. Ron was so miserable that Harry simply couldn't be angry with him anymore. Though he hadn't laid eyes on Hermione since that fateful night months ago, he was certain she was equally as unhappy. The way she so diligently sidestepped the topic of Ron in every one of her letters was a clue. He knew Hermione well enough to know that not bothering to mention Ron was simply not natural.

After watching Ron go through the motions on Christmas Day, Harry Apparated up to Cambridge on Boxing Day to see if he could talk some sense into his supposedly sensible best friend.

"Hermione, I just can't believe that you've let this go on for so long," Harry said to Hermione as they sat at the table in the Grangers' kitchen drinking tea.

"Must I remind you, Harry, that I didn't start any of this?" Hermione said, stirring her tea with enough force to make it splash over the edges of her cup.

"Look, I agree with you that Ron was being a berk — that he has been a berk plenty of times in the past, Hermione, but, well … he's your friend," Harry said. "One of the best friends you've ever had."

Hermione tried her best to keep her expression stony, though her heart panged painfully at these words. Of course Ron was her friend. That was the whole problem, wasn't it? He was her friend — and she wanted him to be so much more. And yet, there were always obstacles, weren't there. And it hurt so much to be on the wrong side of an unrequited love. Could she settle for simply being his friend? If the past few months were anything to go by, then having him in her life even as a friend was better than being cut off from him completely. Or was it? She was beginning to wonder if being so close to someone you wanted but could never have was bearable.

Despite her effort to remain expressionless, her eyes gave her away. They grew red and watery, and soon her lip quivered as well.

"I don't like hurting him," she whispered, her voice fluttering. "I know he's been a friend to me. But Harry, you have to understand — I can't keep letting him hurt me, either. I can't. Even if it's not intentional, it's just …" Her words trailed off as she struggled to control her voice, to choke down the lump in her throat. "The whole Lavender business … I know it was a long time ago, but it cut me so deeply, Harry. And now … he makes it sound like I'm so full of myself, like I want to surround myself with a circle of admirers," she continued once she was able to collect herself a bit more. "Nothing could be further from the truth. I don't want a group of admirers — or lap dogs, as he so charmingly put it. I only want one admirer. One."

Harry sighed and leaned back in his chair. Gods, these two were going to be the death of him. He was as determined as ever not to engineer their lives — if they were going to wind up together, that was for them to decide, not him. It wasn't Harry's place to tell Hermione that Ron was madly in love with her. Hell, Ron had never actually spoken these words out loud to Harry — but the truth of it was plain as day. Damn it, they certainly made it difficult for him to remain neutral. The trouble was, they both shared a portion of the blame for the current impasse.

"Hermione, I don't know what to say," said Harry. "I mean, he misses you. That's all there is to it. He misses you and he doesn't know how to fix it. And yeah, he should say he's sorry," Harry added, raising his hand to cut Hermione off as she prepared to agree with that last point most vehemently. "You have every right to expect him to say he's sorry. And I hope someday he will. But, in the meantime, believe me, he _is_ sorry. He's been dead miserable — though he tries hard not to show it."

At hearing this, Hermione could only sniffle and look down into her teacup.

"And I suspect you're miserable, too," Harry added at a much lower volume, causing Hermione to hiccup violently.

After sitting there for a long minute blinking back tears and trying to calm herself, Hermione nodded. "Thank you, Harry. I promise, I'll think about it."

And, of course, she did. Almost incessantly, truth be told. As she bustled about Cambridge and relished the feeling of being home, as she curled up in her childhood bed at night to write in her journal, as she rang in the New Year with her parents, Harry's words were never far from her mind.

On New Year's Day, Hermione woke up, got dressed, brushed her teeth, padded downstairs to the kitchen and ate breakfast with her parents, just as she would do on any normal day. She told her parents that she was going out for a while. They both nodded, absorbed in reading the morning newspaper, and urged her to ring them if she was going to be out late.

With no plan in her head, no real idea where she was headed, she put one foot in front of the other, and soon found herself in the park around the corner from her parents' house, and after that behind the field house where she had taken ceramics classes as a child. There, she looked around to see if anyone was looking, and Apparated away.

She landed just outside the Ministry in London, at a street corner that was painfully familiar to her. It was the place where she had spent countless hours on surveillance prior to the trio's Ministry break-in so long ago.

She knew that Ron, Harry and the rest of the Auror trainees were scheduled to Portkey back to St. Agnes at noon on New Year's Day — Harry made quite sure that she knew, actually — and that the Portkey was to depart from the Ministry Atrium.

And so, she slowly made her way toward the Ministry visitors' entrance — with absolutely no plan in her head. It wasn't like her to proceed without a mental roadmap, to walk into a situation not knowing what she was going to do or a script of what she was going to say. And yet, she wasn't nervous. No, she was strangely disconnected from herself at this moment, and she noticed it even as she stepped out of the lift and into the broad, black-tiled Atrium. She was just going to move forward, go where she somehow knew she must, and trust that the right thing would happen — or not.

That's when she saw him. Or them, more precisely. A group of roughly 15 young men and 5 young women was gathered at the far end of the Atrium, all toting rucksacks and duffel bags, looking as if they were waiting for something.

From her spot across this long room, she could see him clear as day — a ginger head bobbing several inches above the next tallest person. He didn't see her. The people around him were talking and laughing, but he was silent, his eyes cast downward away from her.

She started walking. Her movements were slow, which perhaps explained why it took so long, why she was so close, before he looked up and noticed her. But eventually he did.

She had stopped and stood, about ten feet away from him, frozen in place. She didn't know how long she had been standing there before he spotted her. If anyone else had seen her, was watching her — and they had, they were — she didn't notice, because her eyes were trained on him. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't frowning. She was just … looking … feasting her eyes, really, because it had been so long and he had changed so much. Under the new muscles, the new bulk, he was still Ron, though. He took her breath away.

His gaze met hers and he had to look again, quickly. He was sure his eyes were playing tricks on him. But then, after another second or two, he believed what he was seeing. It was Hermione, standing nearly within reach, and looking at him with the kind of expression that told him she was unsure of what would happen next — that she was as clueless as he was.

He smiled — he couldn't help himself — and her expression warmed somewhat. On impulse, he dropped his bags and stepped toward her. Just one step. He wasn't sure he should go further. He stood there, rooted to the spot, his heart pounding in his chest, the only outward sign that he wanted to spring forward and kiss her with all his might was in his fingers, which he flexed and stretched without even realizing he was doing it.

She thought that this was the moment when she should say something. "Hi" seemed ridiculous. "How are you?" seemed to be an invitation to discuss things there wasn't time to explore. As she stood there pondering what to do or say next, he took another tentative step forward, and then another, and then, on impulse, she took the last step to close the gap between them and threw herself against him, and they stood there, arms wrapped tightly around one another, as Hermione pressed her cheek against his chest and he buried his face in her hair.

They stood there like that, ignoring the buzz of the crowd around them, eyes squeezed shut, for a good long minute, neither one speaking — and, surprisingly, neither one crying. They couldn't possibly know it, but they were both having the same reaction at the same time — relief. Their friendship was far from healed, their status was far from clear, but none of that really mattered at that moment. They cared, each for the other — maybe just as friends but that would have to do for now — and neither of them could deny it any longer.

As that feeling seeped in, a whistle blew, loud and shrill.

"Portkey, mate," someone said, and Hermione slowly realized that it was Harry, standing in the distance holding his bags as well as Ron's.

A few seconds later, reluctantly and sadly, Ron pulled away.

"I've got to go," he said, looking down at Hermione.

"I know."

"Will you write?"

She nodded.

"I'm sorry, you know," he said.

"I am, too."

He nodded.

The whistle blew again, and this time the voice calling for Ron's attention was his drillmaster's.

"Weasley, if you don't catch this Portkey, it's your arse," he boomed.

Ron turned and took his bags from Harry.

"Bye, then," he said, looking Hermione up and down one last time.

"Bye," she answered, and with a weak wave, he turned and joined the Portkey queue, though he kept looking straight at Hermione until the very last moment, when he and Harry grabbed the brass chalice that was their Portkey and disappeared.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

And, slowly and haltingly, things returned to normal between Hermione and Ron. Though "normal," as Harry noted to himself with a smirk, wasn't really the standard he was hoping for. For normal meant that the two of them resumed their usual game of tentatively circling one another, always wondering what the other was thinking, always on the lookout for slights real and perceived, always expecting to be hurt, always playing defense.

It was maddening, but he reckoned it was better than the total freeze-out he'd witnessed over the previous few months.

Indeed, Ron and Hermione had started corresponding again, though it was slow to get started. Both waited a number of weeks, each expecting the other to make the first move. And, predictably, the deafening silence between them brought each of their fears and insecurities back to the fore — and reignited their shared bad habit of letting hurt feelings curdle into anger.

Harry was surprised to observe that Ron was the first to break the cycle, finally flopping down on his bunk one night to put quill to parchment and scratching out a few lines, however ordinary.

He put a lot of thought into the salutation. "Dear Hermione" had been his usual opening, though now that he looked at the words, he wondered if "Dear" was presumptuous. She _was_ dear to him after all, but, well, should he say such a thing if she is merely a friend?

Finally he settled on starting with a simple "Hermione," and let the rest of the letter flow from there. As he looked the letter over after signing it, he realized how wide the gap was between what he actually wrote and what he wanted so much to say.

_Hermione,_

_It's finally starting to warm up here at St. Agnes, which is a good thing because this place was downright miserable during the earlier part of the winter. The Atlantic winds are dead cold and can actually sting your face some days._

(Translation: I'm so lost in thoughts of you that I sometimes find myself needing to get up and move, and that means I spend an inordinate amount of my free time wandering about the camp, wondering what you're doing, wondering how you are, and I do it despite the fact that it's so effing cold and windy out there that I sometimes think I'll freeze my bits off.)

_The only recreation is the pub down in the village. The recruits are given leave to go there on Friday and Saturday nights. It gets a bit raucous sometimes. I enjoy it as much as the next fellow, but I'm also looking forward to having decent enough weather that I can do other things on leave, like just walk on the beach or take a stroll into the forest at the center of the island. I got to do that some in the fall. I think you'd like it._

(Translation: We had loads of down time back at Hogwarts, didn't we, but I was never bored because I always had you to talk to. No one could be bored with you around. I go to the pub and stand around listening to all these gits talk about quidditch and girls and whatnot, but what I wouldn't give for a night sitting by the fire with you, or trekking through nature listening to you talk about the latest book you've read.)

_I hope all's well at Hogwarts. When do you go to France for that Spellwriting session? I'm surprised that McGonagall is letting you go, since you're Head Girl and all — but I'm not surprised, too, if you know what I mean. Say hello to Hagrid and let me know how you're doing sometime, OK?_

(Translation: I hope to Merlin that you don't fall in love with France — or fall in love with _someone_ in France — and never come back. Though I'm proud as hell of you that you're being given this opportunity. I've never heard of anybody at Hogwarts doing anything at all like this. You're amazing, you are. Just … don't forget me, all right?)

_Ron._

(Translation: Love, Ron.)

Hermione's heart turned over when the St. Agnes delivery Owl arrived unexpectedly and dropped this little note on the table before her in the Great Hall one early February morning. After poring over Ron's words with all the intensity she would grant to an ancient set of Runes or a new Potions formula — attempting to glean hidden meanings and finding none there — Hermione set about writing him back. She attempted to be as straightforward as he had been, keeping herself to the small details of life, though what was left unsaid was every bit as ardent as what was woven between the lines of Ron's note. But at least they were in touch again. When Harry saw the Hogwarts delivery Owl land at Ron's side at breakfast the following morning, he felt a surge of relief. He never liked being in the middle when Ron and Hermione had fallen out with one another. And he was quite certain that if one or the other of them ever found the courage to say what was in their heart, they'd never fall out again.

The correspondence, once renewed, was a daily one.

It was so good to hear from Ron that Hermione told herself that even if she could never be his girlfriend, she would always try hard to remain his friend, because life was just so terribly gray and dull without him. So she made a vow that she'd try her level best to keep calm if ever she got word that he was attracted to someone else down there at St. Agnes while they were so far apart. And it's a jolly good thing she did, because while she was in France doing that intensive Spellwriting practicum, she got word that what she had always dreaded had come to pass.

The news came from The Daily Prophet, which she had requested to be delivered by Owl to France even though it usually arrived a day late. The report was the kind of thing that would normally have thrown her into paroxysms of tears, shouts and cursing back in the day but, instead, she attempted, however feebly, to absorb the information without making a scene.

It was a fairly small item in the newspaper's Gossip section — photos, mostly — but as far as Hermione was concerned, it was a bombshell.

oooOOOooo

_The Daily Prophet_  
_15 April 1999_

**_POTTER & WEASLEY HIT HOGSMEADE_ **

_By Bryant Pryor_

_The war's Dynamic Duo,_ _**Harry Potter** _ _and_ _**Ronald Weasley** _ _, joined old Hogwarts mates on a rare leave from Auror boot camp to take in the students' springtime break from the castle, and their exploits had tongues wagging._

_There were few surprises surrounding Mr. Potter's comings and goings, as his burgeoning relationship with the ginger-haired beauty_ _**Ginevra Weasley** _ _has been a matter of common knowledge since the Order of Merlin ceremony last summer._

_What was surprising to many observers, however, was the gaggle of women that constantly surrounded Mr. Weasley — and the particular attention he paid to Hogwarts student_ _**Cecilia Middlebrooks** _ _, a tall, fair-haired and curvy blonde who is in her last year at Hogwarts in the Hufflepuff house. The two were rarely out of one another's company the entire weekend, and Ms. Middlebrooks quite happily took every opportunity to drape herself on him. Mr. Weasley, for his part, most certainly didn't seem to mind._

_Noticeably absent from the festivities was the third leg of The Golden Trio,_ _**Hermione Granger** _ _, who is reportedly overseas on an educational internship. If either Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley mourned her absence, they certainly weren't showing it in Hogsmeade._

oooOOOooo

The report was accompanied by four full-color pictures of Ron, Harry and Ginny laughing it up at the Broomsticks, traipsing down the street outside Madame Puddifoots, shopping for Quidditch gear, and chatting in the town square with Neville, Dean and Seamus. And indeed, in all four photos, Cecilia Middlebrooks either had her hand looped through Ron's arm, her arm wrapped around his shoulder, or her shoulder nestled against his side. Hermione tried to tell herself that Ron looked at least a tad bit uncomfortable about her attentions in some of these pictures, but she had to admit that it might have been wishful thinking.

In the privacy of her bedroom that night, she cried bitterly over this turn of events, of course, but she refrained from venting her feelings to Ron in an angry letter. Not that she wasn't tempted. She realized that she had no right to keep expecting him to put up with her opinions about his love life. Obviously he didn't share her feelings. She told herself she needed to at least try to move on.

So when his next letter arrived, full of details of his visit to Hogsmeade — with absolutely no mention of Cecilia — she wrote back and merely said she was glad he had enjoyed himself. She gave no outward sign that she was upset.

Another very brief letter from Ron landed the next day.

_Hermione,_

_The latest Prophet just landed here at St. Agnes and, well, I reckoned I should write to tell you that they played up the whole thing with Cecilia Middlebrooks way too much. I mean, yeah, I bumped into her and we spent time together that weekend, but the Prophet made it out like we're about to get engaged or something._

_I know it doesn't really matter to you, but since we're friends I thought you might be a little hacked off if I went and started dating someone without telling you … because, you know, friends are supposed to tell one another stuff like that, right? So, anyway, that's all there is to it. Cecilia's a nice girl but, you know, the Prophet blew my seeing her that weekend way out of proportion._

_Hope we're still OK._

_Ron._

Hermione couldn't quite make out the meaning of Ron's words. He didn't say he wasn't attracted to Cecilia. He didn't even say that they weren't dating. He just said the Prophet had exaggerated the situation. Hmm. She read the note over and over again, making herself more mental in the process. After the tenth reading, she decided he must have been trying to tell her, in as subtle a way as possible, that he was indeed dating Cecilia but that he was hoping she wouldn't be upset about it.

This interpretation tested her new resolution to stay calm and stay friends. But she felt she simply had to follow through on it, to try to be mature about the situation, no matter how difficult it was. So she wrote back to tell Ron that she was perfectly fine, that the Prophet article hadn't upset her at all, and that Cecilia seemed like a very nice girl.

Ron was relieved when he received Hermione's reply, of course, but then he had to wonder: Why wasn't Hermione upset?

He read and re-read the note and eventually concluded that Hermione didn't care, that he could date Cecilia or whoever and it wouldn't affect her one way or the other. In short, she didn't have feelings for him. She may have at one time, but not anymore.

He went to bed that night with a heavy heart. And so did she.

But they each comforted themselves with the same thought: At least we're still friends.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The term came to an end. Hermione, not surprisingly, was class valedictorian. Ron, somewhat surprisingly, graduated Auror Academy at the top of his recruiting class. Molly and Arthur threw a giant party at The Burrow to fete the new graduates — Ginny and Hermione, Harry and Ron.

Hermione Side-Alonged her parents down to Devon from Cambridge for the big event, and she marveled that her parents fell in so well with the Weasleys. It occurred to her that they always had — and she was glad. Her father was just as fascinated with wizarding culture as Ron's father was with the muggle version. The two of them spent a good portion of the evening holed up in Arthur's shed, with Hugh explaining the intricacies of electricity and Arthur demonstrating the principles of spells like Accio and Expelliarmus.

"You know, Mum keeps insisting that the three of you really should stay the night," Ron said toward the end of the evening as he handed Hermione a butterbeer.

"I know, and I'd love to and I think Dad would, too, but Mum's on edge about packing. She's always that way anytime we travel. You know — has to double-check that she has her toothbrush, that sort of thing," Hermione said with a laugh. "I reminded her that they have a little thing called shops in Barcelona, and they actually do sell toothbrushes, but she never seems to listen."

Ron laughed and joined her in leaning against the back wall of the house. The party was winding down, but there was still quite a crowd inside, and it was nice to take a break on the back porch and get a breath of fresh air.

"At least we don't have to drive down to London to catch our flight tomorrow," she added. "I think Mum and Dad are getting the hang of Side-Alonging."

The two of them clinked their bottles and then turned their eyes toward the back meadow. A gentle sprinkle of rain was falling on the grass, and a late spring breeze fanned the trees.

"So, how long will you be gone?" Ron said, trying to sound casual.

"Just ten days," she answered. "We've been to Spain loads of times, but somehow we've never made it to Barcelona. I'm dying to see it. So much history, so much wonderful architecture."

"Will you be in the city the whole time?"

"We may take little day trips into the countryside, but yes, we'll likely stick around Barcelona," she said, taking a sip. "I think it'll be nice to reconnect with my parents. They've been so great since they got back, so understanding, but I can tell they're eager to spend more time as a family."

Ron nodded and took a gulp of his butterbeer, then said, "Yeah, that's only natural," bending his leg to rest his foot on the wall behind him.

He knew all this, of course. Hermione had written the details of the planned trip in one of her recent letters, but still … he didn't like the fact that she was going out of the country, traveling around when there were still Death Eaters on the loose. Kingsley felt the same way and, when he learned of Hermione's plans, he insisted that Bernard Brocklehurst, the head of the Auror Department, assign an Auror recruit or two to tag along. Hermione wasn't against the idea when she thought those recruits might be Harry, Ron or both, but then the boys learned they were being assigned to the Officer Training Corps at the Ministry's Camden facility in London — quite an honor, really — and training began in three days' time. So Brocklehurst selected his next best recruit for the job instead: Aris Thayer. Besides, Brocklehurst reasoned, the Golden Trio traveling together would make quite a tempting target for Death Eaters, wouldn't they. Probably best to send Hermione with a neutral party.

Hermione had never met Thayer and she felt it was a bit odd to be faced with the prospect of traveling with someone she didn't even know, but she couldn't deny that Kingsley's concerns about safety and security were valid. Her parents certainly didn't argue, either. Once Hermione had walked them through the details of the war — minus the information Dumbledore warned the trio never to share regarding the Horcruxes — they were stunned at first but then slowly came to understand that the wizarding world had just been through a grueling and gruesome chapter in its history — and that its ending was still unwritten.

Ron was chagrined when he learned Thayer was the one Brocklehurst had chosen for this particular assignment — not that Thayer was incompetent. He wasn't. In fact, he was one of the best recruits in the class. No, it was because Aris Thayer had a reputation as a smooth operator, a smarmy charmer who could sweet-talk the ladies like no one's business. He had managed to score with three of the five girls in the Auror class this year. He was also the kind of guy that a girl's parents could be prone to like … well-read, well-bred … a real bullshit artist. Ron didn't like him from the very first week of camp at St. Agnes, mainly because Thayer and his buddy Noble — a couple of Ravenclaws — had been arseholes to Harry in the early going, making it clear they thought Harry had been getting special treatment from the instructors and drillmasters because of his "Boy Who Lived" reputation. The fact that Harry was head and shoulders better than anyone else in the class at dueling and defensive skills didn't add up to squat in Thayer and Noble's eyes, and Ron never quite forgave them for being less than kind to Harry.

It didn't help that Thayer was handsome. Quite handsome. His mother, Ron learned, was Greek — thus his first name, Aristotle — and he must have inherited his curly, jet-black locks from her. His eyes were dark as well, his skin tan and clear. Nary a freckle in sight.

"As long as I'm back by early June, I should be in good shape," Hermione continued, unaware that Ron had been obsessing about the prospect of Thayer spending so much time with Hermione and her folks. "Kingsley says the job in his office will be waiting for me when I return, but I want to get a running start, be prepared, so I hope we get back early enough that I can spend a week or so doing some reading and research on a few of the projects that Kingsley and I are going to tackle first."

"Huh? Oh yeah, that's a good idea," Ron said, returning to the present. "Although you know you're not going to have to do anything particularly special to be prepared for that job, Mione. You're going to kick arses left and right from Day One."

She chuckled. "Well, it's a pretty wide-ranging title: special attache for policy. It's tough to know how to prepare for such a job anyway. I feel like I'll have to be sort of a jack of all trades, master of none, as the old saying goes."

"You've got nothing to worry about," Ron replied. "You'll be fine. Just go on your trip. Enjoy yourself. You've earned it."

"Thanks."

Silence fell again, and the two of them allowed themselves to be lulled for a moment by the sound of the soft rain.

Ron's mind wandered, however, and he found himself thinking about Thayer again. He tried to tell himself he had nothing to worry about. Thayer's mission was to accompany the Grangers on the flight to and from Spain. While in country, he was to go along with them under a Disillusionment charm and remain as low-profile as possible. He would be on the lookout for threats, not hobnobbing with Hermione and her parents. Right?

But Thayer being Thayer, he couldn't resist the opportunity to plant a few seeds of anxiety in Ron's mind. After meeting with Brocklehurst the previous day to discuss the mission, Thayer wandered down to the Auror Department workout room inside the Ministry, where most of the Aurors — including Ron — could be found before and after shifts. Sure enough, there was Ron, just finishing his last reps on a weight machine.

"Tough luck, Weasley," Thayer said as he settled on to the machine next to Ron and started pumping his arms. "I just got the dream assignment of the year."

After informing Ron that he was Brocklehurst's selection to guard the Grangers, Thayer smiled conspiratorially and murmured, "Well, ten days in Spain will certainly stack the odds, won't it. How was a bloke ever to get to know that girl back at Hogwarts? She was always surrounded by her two best friends."

Ron scoffed. "She was also busy with a few other matters — like being the smartest fucking student at the school and keeping the three of us from being killed every time we turned around," he said, deciding he might just do another series of repetitions after all.

"Well, I'll see to it that she has nothing to worry about now, and maybe that'll free up her mind for other things," Thayer said, turning his attention back to his machine and upping the weight on his forearms.

Ron's heart raced. There was no way that Hermione could ever be persuaded to take Thayer seriously — right? He told himself that Thayer was exactly the kind of self-important slickster that Hermione couldn't stand, the Ravenclaw version of Cormac McLaggen. For a brief second, he remembered Hermione's infatuation with Gilderoy Lockhart, but he quickly reminded himself that that was years and years ago, when she was a mere kid. Right?

He was just starting to wonder if he ought to warn Hermione about Thayer when she spoke again.

"I was proud of you, you know," she said quietly, still looking out over the back garden.

"Huh?"

Hermione giggled. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were somewhere else. I was just saying that I was proud of you for … you know … graduating at the top of your class. I don't think I really had a chance to tell you. There were so many people at the graduation ceremony."

"Oh," said Ron, casting his eyes down into his butterbeer. "Well, thanks. That's … that means a lot coming from you."

Hermione smiled and looked toward him. He was still peering down into the bottle in his hand, as if looking for something there, but she knew he was just distracting himself. Was she making him uncomfortable? She thought that maybe she ought to just shut up, but there was more she wanted to say.

"I know you worked very hard, and it was quite an achievement," she continued. Ron felt his heart pound. Damn, she was proud of him. He couldn't speak but for the lump in his throat, and he cursed himself because he had to blink a few times to keep his eyes from getting teary.

"Just getting in to the Academy is an honor, Ron, but making it the whole way to Camden, and then finishing in the top position, well, it's a remarkable accomplishment. And then being picked for the Officer Training Corps … we're all so thrilled for you," she said quietly.

All he could do was nod. He was afraid that if he attempted to speak at that moment, he'd just make a berk of himself. She was proud of him. He couldn't believe how happy it made him. Because, of course, he'd wanted to do well, to prove to himself that he could do it, to prove to himself that he could step out from Harry's very long shadow and achieve something on his own. But it meant the world to him that she saw it, she recognized it, and he tried to form the words to say what was in his heart.

Then the screen door swung open with its trademark creak and Hermione's Mum stepped outside.

"Oh _there_ you are, darling," Eleanor said. "We have an early day tomorrow, Hermione. I hate to say it because it's been such a delightful time, Ron, but we really do need to be heading back to Cambridge."

Ron pulled himself together enough to say, "Oh, yeah, of course," but that was all he could manage before Molly had joined them out on the porch and then Hugh and Arthur, and then Ginny and Harry.

There were hugs and kisses all around as the Grangers said their farewells.

"Have a lovely trip," Molly said as she kissed Eleanor on the cheek.

"Be sure to take lots of pictures," Arthur said to Hugh. "We'll want to see them when you get back."

In all the bustle, Ron and Hermione barely had time to say goodbye to one another. Hermione gave him a quick peck on the cheek and he immediately felt his ears turn red. As she pulled away, he grabbed her arm and tugged her into a tight hug.

"Be careful," he whispered into her ear.

"I will," she answered, and then stepped away.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Ron did his level best to keep himself occupied while Hermione was away in Spain — and indeed, he had plenty of studying, testing and physical training to keep him busy in the early days of Officer Training Corps — but Hermione was never far from his mind. And, therefore, neither was Thayer. Ron couldn't help but picture Thayer buttering Hermione's parents up, chatting up Hermione at every opportunity, and generally being his usual unctuous self.

What Ron didn't know, of course, was that Hermione's parents spotted the arse-kisser in Thayer a mile away. His obvious attempts to curry favor with Hermione's parents made Hugh in particular quite irritable, forcing Eleanor to occasionally run interference. The Grangers were partisans, of course. They'd never discussed Hermione's love life directly with Hermione — well, Eleanor had, but Hugh relied on his wife for clues. They both were certain, however, that their daughter was in deep when it came to a certain tall, gangly, ginger-haired wizard, and they were certain that he felt the same about her. Hugh, for his part, still wanted to mark it all down as puppy love, but Eleanor had different ideas. She knew the real thing when she saw it. She very much liked Ron, and Hugh did too, however grudgingly.

"Why in blazes doesn't he just ask her on a date then, for heaven's sake?" Hugh asked one night as Eleanor sat at the hotel-room vanity brushing her hair before bed. "What's the matter with young men nowadays?" he continued, tossing his History of Chess book onto the bed next to him in exasperation and placing his reading glasses on the nightstand.

Eleanor shooshed him. "Quiet, Hugh — the walls in this hotel are paper thin. You don't want Hermione to hear you. And you _certainly_ don't want Aris to hear."

Hugh grumbled and continued at a lower volume. "When I was that age, you saw a girl, you liked the look of her, you asked her to a dance or to the cinema or somesuch. No drama, no fuss. But this poor blighter — it's not as if he hasn't known her for half his life, is it? Honestly, it shouldn't be that difficult."

Eleanor chuckled and eyed her husband in the mirror.

"What's so funny?" Hugh asked.

"Nothing," Eleanor said lightly as she resumed brushing her hair. "I simply didn't realize that you'd already forgotten what it was like to be young."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Shhhh!" Eleanor turned to face Hugh directly. "It means, dear, that the fact that they've been best friends since they were 11 makes it that much harder, not easier. It's risky, isn't it. If Ron comes out and says what he's feeling and then discovers that she doesn't feel the same way, it could be quite embarrassing and awkward. It could ruin the whole friendship, in fact. That's certainly what's been holding Hermione back, and I'm quite confident Ron is having the same problem."

"Holding Hermione back? From what? From asking _him_ out?" Hugh sputtered.

Eleanor nodded.

"Well, that's just not on, is it — a girl asking a bloke out. It's a good thing she's not considering that. Wouldn't want to see her throwing herself at the lad," Hugh said.

Eleanor glared and threatened to toss her hairbrush at Hugh. "Your memory really _is_ failing you, isn't it?" she said with a laugh. "Don't you remember that _I_ was the one who made the first move with you?"

Hugh scoffed. "Don't rewrite history, darling. You merely told me you were going to the Library to study for our Anatomy exam, and told me where you'd be sitting. I connected the dots from there."

"Fine — have it your way," Eleanor said, rising from her seat and joining Hugh in bed. "The point is, Ron's a sweet young man, he's mad about our daughter and she's mad about him. I just hope they sort it out eventually."

"Hmm," said Hugh. "Well, he'd better hurry up. She's grown into a lovely young woman. If he doesn't get his act together and make a move soon, someone else will."

Those words rang in Eleanor's head as she watched Aris Thayer ever-so-graciously take Hermione's bags for her as they exited the British Airways terminal and headed toward the long-term car park, where Hermione intended to Side-Along her parents back to Cambridge. Eleanor had found plenty of excuses to keep Hermione and Aris apart during the journey — asking him to run to the gift shop to pick up a pack of gum, taking his arm and escorting him away from Hermione at key moments, that sort of thing. She couldn't tell if Hermione was affected one way or the other by all this attention from this obviously good-looking young man. All she knew was, she hoped Ron would gin up the courage to say something to Hermione sooner rather than later.

When Hermione arrived back in Britain, she had quite a bit to sort out before starting her job at the Ministry — living quarters, mainly. Her parents, of course, made it clear that she was welcome to stay with them in Cambridge, and it would have been easy enough to do so. Apparating to London was a relative snap. But Hermione craved a taste of London life, and so, before she left for Spain, she had approached George and asked him if he would be willing to rent her the extra flat above Wheezes. George had only recently moved back into the two-bedroom apartment that he had once shared with Fred, but the one-bedroom across the hall, where George and Fred's clerk Verity lived before the war, was vacant now that she'd moved in with her boyfriend.

Ron and Harry had by then moved into Grimmauld Place. Molly insisted that Ginny live at the Burrow at least through the summer, though everyone — perhaps with the exception of Molly — knew that Ginny would be spending as much time as possible at Harry's, that is, when she wasn't on the road or practicing with the Holyhead Harpies. Ron wondered how weird it might be to have to witness so much, erm, _togetherness_ between his best friend and his little sister, but he tried his best to put the question out of his mind. After all, the entire summer was ahead of them, and he was looking forward to living on his own, continuing to kick arse and take names in Auror training, and doing all of it without a certain dark wizard plotting to kill him and everyone he cared about. If he could squeeze in some time with Hermione along the way, all the better, though he knew she'd be busy working side-by-side with Kingsley.

Harry, Ron and Ginny happily volunteered to help Hermione move in to her new flat. What none of them — including Hermione — bargained for was for Thayer to show up. Ginny couldn't help but notice Hermione's exasperation at seeing him. It was growing increasingly clear, at least to Hermione's sharp-eyed best girlfriend, that Hermione was beginning to regard Thayer as a bit of a pest. That's because he had a habit of turning up everywhere, all the time — particularly when Hermione was looking forward to seeing Ron.

Bumping into her in the Ministry Archives, escorting her to the lifts, stopping by her office at lunchtimes … Hermione's co-workers in the Minister's office were convinced that Hermione and Thayer were a hot-and-heavy item, when nothing could be further from the truth. What annoyed Hermione most was that she started to notice that whenever Thayer was around, Ron most definitely wasn't. A near-miss in the Ministry commissary was a case in point: At a Sunday dinner at the Burrow, Ron had mentioned that he was delighted to have a day shift for once, because it meant that he could take lunch at a normal time — 12 o'clock sharp. Hermione, who routinely spent Sundays at the Burrow with the rest of the family, made a mental note of it and hurried through writing a legal briefing for Kingsley the next day so she could just _happen_ to hit the commissary at noon, all the while keeping an eagle eye out for Ron. She was just making her way to a long table in a less-than-crowded corner of the lunchroom, balancing a salad on her tray, when she spied Ron entering the far end of the commissary. Her heart fluttered in her chest. As she sat down, she caught Ron's eye and he waved and nodded as if to say that he would be right over as soon as he grabbed a sandwich. She was so fixated on watching Ron that she hadn't noticed Thayer coming up behind her — that is, not until he had taken a seat across from her.

Unfortunately, Ron noticed too and swerved away from them to join a few fellow Aurors several tables over.

It was all Hermione could do to be civil — and, actually, she wondered if she was managing it at all, because she barely spoke two words to Thayer as he made himself comfortable and tucked into his chicken pot pie.

"You're looking lovely today," Thayer said, looking Hermione over appreciatively. "That color is quite becoming on you, if you don't mind my saying so. You should wear it more often."

Hermione smiled as faintly as politeness would allow and stabbed at her salad. Suddenly she wasn't hungry.

She chalked up that Monday mishap to coincidence, but when it happened again Tuesday, she started to get truly annoyed. Her parents had raised her to mind her manners, but she was beginning to wonder what Thayer would look like if she shot him with a good stinging jinx to the face.

For the remainder of the week, she persuaded her officemate Fiona to accompany her down to lunch, and she was therefore at least successful in getting Ron and a large group of his fellow Aurors to join them each day — including, unfortunately, Thayer. But at least Ron was near, and she was able to chat with him however briefly during these gatherings. It wasn't the one-on-one time that she craved, but it would have to do for now, she supposed.

It went on that way for weeks — Thayer making himself a nuisance, Ron making himself scarce.

One Friday evening, Hermione had been working late with Kingsley on new legislation regarding the legal status of house elves, when Harry stopped by.

"Hey, Hermione — hi, Minister," said Harry as he leaned his head inside Hermione's office door.

Kingsley laughed. "Harry how many times do I have to tell you?"

"I know, I know — it's Kingsley," Harry said with a smile. "Hermione, it's six o'clock on a Friday night. Think I can persuade you to put down your quill for once and come to the Leaky? Neville and Luna are Flooing in to join us. I think Dean and Seamus and Oliver Wood will be there, too. Come on."

Hermione looked to Kingsley and bit her lower lip. "Would you mind?" she said.

"Mind? I might just meet you all there later," Kingsley said with a shrug, rising and clapping Harry on the back as he headed for the door. "You're working too many hours as it is, Hermione. Get out of here and go have fun."

"Thanks, Kingsley," Hermione said with a grin. "Harry, I'll meet you there. I'm going to Apparate home to freshen up a bit, but I shouldn't be more than 10 or 15 minutes. I'll pop in to the flat and then scoot straight over to the Leaky as soon as possible, I promise."

"I don't mind coming with you," Harry said.

"You're sweet, but don't — I know Ginny would kill me for keeping you when she's been on tour with the Harpies all week. She told me she's coming in tonight and I'm sure she's already got a seat with your name on it at the Leaky," Hermione said.

"All right — but don't dawdle, and promise me you'll Apparate right to the front door," Harry said.

"Absolutely."

Hermione was happy to see him go because she didn't want Harry to be even remotely aware of how much effort she intended to put in to looking her best that night. She straightened up her desk in a flash then rushed to Fiona's office.

"Meeting us at the Leaky tonight, yes?" Hermione said.

Fiona nodded happily. "I am! I hear it's going to be quite a reunion. I'll tag along if you're going straight away," she said.

"Actually, I'm going to run home and change first," Hermione said. "See you there in a few."

With that, Hermione hurried to the Floo bank in the Ministry Atrium and zipped home as quickly as she could.

Harry's next stop was the Auror Department locker room, where he was quite certain he'd find Ron just wrapping up his post-shift workout.

"Coming to the Leaky?" Harry said as Ron put down the barbells and stretched.

"Yeah, I reckon so. Got to shower and change first, but I should be over there after too long," Ron answered as he picked up his rucksack and rummaged around looking for his shampoo.

"Good. Hermione's going to Apparate over in about 15 minutes. Said she had to stop at home first, but hopefully she won't take as long as usual," said Harry. "See you there."

"Ta, Harry," said Ron with a wave as he turned toward the shower.

As Harry exited the locker room, Thayer entered. "Evening, Harry," said Thayer. Harry merely nodded and kept walking.

"Hey, Weasley," Thayer chirped as he opened his locker. He scoffed and continued in a tone that was meant to suggest he hadn't noticed Ron's stony silence. "I'd love to stay and chat some more, Weasley, because it's been fascinating," he said with a sarcastic edge, "but I have places to go and things to do. Got to change and pick up Hermione for the big get-together at the Leaky."

Thayer, unbeknownst to Ron, had stopped by Hermione's office just a minute or two after she'd left — and Fiona filled him in on Hermione's whereabouts.

Ron merely rolled his eyes and looked around the workout room in disgust. Really? Was this really happening to him? Whatever enthusiasm he'd had for this impromptu reunion at the Leaky evaporated before his very eyes. As Thayer hummed and primped and fussed in the mirror across the room, Ron dropped his rucksack, shuffled back to the weight machines, and settled onto one with a sigh. Oh well, he thought. Might as well get in another round of reps before heading back to Grimmauld Place and listening to tonight's Cannons match on the wireless. It was supposed to be a good game — Chudley vs. Puddlemere — and heck, it would be nice to have the whole place to himself tonight, he told himself. Yeah. What better way to spend a Friday night?

Before he knew it, Thayer had strutted out of the locker room and, no doubt, toward the Apparition Zone outside the Ministry. In a minute or two, he'd be knocking on the door of Hermione's flat, Ron reckoned, and … well, he didn't want to imagine the rest.

He tried to concentrate on leg lifts, but within minutes he realized it was a lost cause. He was just too dejected to do much more tonight. So he dragged himself from the weight room, took a quick shower, and made his way back to his locker to dress.

He had just pulled on a fresh jumper and had settled onto a bench to tie his trainers when, with an uncharacteristic clatter, Thayer stumbled through the swinging doors and re-entered the locker room, cradling his face in one hand while feeling his way toward his locker with the other.

"Merlin's tits," Thayer muttered to himself as his shin rammed into the bench Ron was sitting on, and that's when Ron noticed that Thayer's face was oddly swollen and red.

"What the bloody hell happened to you?" Ron asked.

"You're still here, Weasley?" Thayer barked from behind eyelids that were so puffy he clearly couldn't see.

Ron's answer was to laugh quietly.

"Up yours, Weasley," Thayer muttered. "Keep that up and I'll tell you what I really think of you _and_ your bloody girlfriend."

"You'd better not be talking about Hermione," Ron said darkly, slowly rising to his feet and crossing his arms. "And what are you doing here anyway? I thought you two had a hot date."

Thayer felt his way along the row of lockers and found his own, waving his wand at it to open it. "Well, obviously that didn't go as planned, did it," he said cuttingly. "I've got a stock of Dittany and Camofrey oil here — and I jolly well need it, no thanks to that frigid little bitch."

Ron surprised himself at how calmly he handled what happened next. He stepped over the bench, grabbed Thayer by the front of his shirt, and slammed him into the locker doors with a loud clang. Thayer, of course, didn't see it coming.

"All right, mate," Ron said lowly, still gripping the front of Thayer's shirt in his fists. "Your face may be effed up, but I'm pretty sure your hearing still works, so listen closely. If Hermione jinxed you, she had a good reason, didn't she. I intend to find out what it was. In the meantime, if I ever hear you speak of her that way again, you'll get a thumping you'll never forget."

With that, Ron tossed Thayer against the lockers like a rag doll, turned to grab his rucksack, and strode toward the Ministry Atrium and the Apparition Zone beyond.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Earlier that evening, Hermione tumbled out of the fireplace in her lounge and dusted herself off. A little smile had crept onto her face as she headed home, so subtle that she hadn't even noticed it, but her heart was light. Seeing all the old Hogwarts gang that night … that was just what she needed to lift her spirits. No matter how often you say you'll stay in touch, it's so easy to lose track of people, she thought. It had already happened with Ron to a degree, and she was determined not to let that continue. Though she was in a hurry to get dressed and do her hair, she took a moment to give Crookshanks a cuddle and to tidy up the breakfast table where she had left a half-full cup of tea plus the morning's edition of the Prophet as well as a quill and a few sheafs of parchment.

As she held Crookshanks in her arms, she looked about the flat with a sense of satisfaction. It was hers — the very first place she could call her very own, and she was proud of it. She'd only been there for a few weeks, but it was already beginning to look lived in, like it belonged to her. She enjoyed decorating it, hanging pictures, arranging her books just so, and bringing home fresh bunches of cut flowers every few days to place in the vase that was a flat-warming gift from her parents. Remembering how much she had to do if she was to make herself presentable, she set Crookshanks on the kitchen floor, picked up her briefcase and her wand, and paused to sniff the bouquet of roses that she'd placed on the kitchen table the day before. Then she bustled into her bedroom, tossed her briefcase and wand onto her desk, and threw open the armoire, taking a step back to decide what she ought to wear. And though she knew it was ridiculous to even think it, she wondered what outfit would most appeal to Ron.

She stepped out of the dress trousers and form-fitting turtleneck that she'd worn to work and began flipping through her wardrobe, finally settling on a delicate little cap-sleeved blouse with a neckline that was just a bit too low to wear to work, but she reckoned that she could tone down the vampy effect by pairing it with a prim dove-grey cardigan and her favorite pair of jeans. She had just laid her choices out on the bed when the doorbell rang.

She slipped on a dressing gown and returned to the lounge, approaching the front door with a sinking feeling.

"Who is it?" she asked, trying, however grudgingly, to mask the annoyance in her voice.

"I'll give you three guesses," came the sing-song sound of Aris's voice from the outside landing. "Thought you could do with an escort to the Leaky."

Hermione was beyond exasperated. Maybe this was the time to give Aris a piece of her mind once and for all, she thought. She had dreaded doing it until now because, despite her volatile temper, she didn't relish the idea of hurting people's feelings, especially in the realm of romance. She wondered how Aris could possibly have missed the not-so-subtle hints that she'd been dropping lately, but apparently he had.

"Aris, why don't you just head over to the Leaky and I'll meet you and everybody else there," she said in a testy tone through the door.

"You forget, my dear," he replied playfully. "I'm an Auror. I wouldn't be doing my duty if I let you travel unaccompanied."

If he was trying to drive her mental, he was doing a corking job.

Hermione's blood wasn't quite boiling, but it was definitely on the simmer. It occurred to her that maybe Aris didn't really care about her feelings. Or maybe he reckoned he could win her over — or wear her down — through sweet-talking, flattery and good old-fashioned persistence. Whatever. She decided enough was most definitely enough.

Aggravated, she flung open the door and stood with her hands on her hips.

"Aris Thayer, I survived the Second Wizarding War, thank you very much," she huffed. "I do believe I can manage to Apparate myself to the Leaky on my own steam without assistance from you or any Auror."

Aris, for his part, hadn't expected the sight that greeted him, but he couldn't believe his luck. Because there, before him, was Hermione Granger clad only in a filmy dressing gown. It was a plain and proper robe, but it was most definitely the closest he'd come to seeing her undressed. That fact — plus her indignant attitude — gave him ideas. Getting her to the Leaky, which had never truly been a high priority for Thayer, dropped off his priority list altogether.

"Well, a girl can't be too careful nowadays," Thayer said with a crooked smile, then pushed open the doorway a bit wider, stepping toward Hermione and running his eyes up and down her form.

Hermione instinctively stepped back from him, and that's when she realized just how underdressed she was. Until that moment, she had been so annoyed that it hadn't even registered with her that she was standing in his presence barely dressed.

She stepped back from him again, clutching her dressing gown closed in front. She straightened up to her full height and tipped her head back slightly in defiance. "I insist that you leave my home right now," she said emphatically, hoping he didn't notice the nervous wobble in her voice.

Thayer merely chuckled. This girl, he thought … what a little minx … he felt that maybe he'd finally sorted out what made her tick, and he realized that he'd been playing this game with her all wrong. The nice-guy routine clearly wasn't working. But then … _She's such a proper one, isn't she — so formal and reserved. Likes to play hard to get. That's it. Wants to be contradicted. Wants to be put in her place, maybe. We'll see._

Ignoring Hermione's rigid posture, Thayer advanced toward her slowly, the smile on his face transforming into what Hermione could only call a leer. The front door swung shut behind him as he stepped further into the room.

"Aris, I'm not kidding," Hermione said bluntly, trying to sound forceful and calm though she sensed danger, and her heart was beating hard and fast in her chest. She cursed herself when she remembered that she'd left her wand on the desk in her bedroom. "You need to leave — now."

She hadn't realized that she had backed up, half-step by half-step, until she was budged up against the breakfast table. When her bum made contact with the table's edge, she flinched, and that's when Thayer reached out and grabbed her by the wrist firmly, pulling her close to him with a slight jerk.

"What are you doing?" Hermione shrieked.

"What I should have done a long time ago," Thayer replied, wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her close, and planting his mouth over hers. She wriggled to get away from him, but as she opened her mouth to shout, he merely plunged his tongue in, effectively quieting her even as she slapped his chest with her free hand and bent backwards to try to extricate herself from his grip.

Eventually he came up for air, pulling back from her with a self-satisfied grin. She reared back and slapped him across the cheek — hard — and was amazed to see him laugh, though a hand-shaped red mark began to bloom across his face.

"Like it a little rough, eh?" Thayer said with a smirk.

"How dare you," Hermione gasped, finally levering herself away from him enough that she was able to thrust her knee forcefully between his legs, dropping him to the floor in a heap. He tore her dressing gown as he fell, but she didn't care — she turned on her heel and was in her bedroom in a flash to retrieve her wand. A heartbeat later, she was in the hallway, brandishing her wand in his direction and hitting him in the face with the most powerful stinging jinx that she could summon. Thayer screamed in agony and covered his face in both hands. She flashed a quick Opening charm at the door then Levitated him through it, dropping him on the stairs and watching as he tumbled down to the bottom.

With that, she slammed her front door shut, locked it, and reinforced it with the most forceful Locking charms and protective enchantments she could think of.

And then … she stood, looking at the door, her chest heaving with fear and exertion. She had no idea how long she stood there, shivering and panting, before she sank to the floor and melted into tears.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

As Ron hurried to the Apparition Zone, he felt as if every nerve in his body was tingling. Something was very, very wrong. He wasn't sure exactly what. But clearly Thayer had had some kind of a run-in with Hermione. He was determined to get to Hermione's as quickly as possible. Even if she told him that the cause of their dispute was none of his bloody business, he wouldn't rest until he satisfied himself that she was at least safe and unharmed. Beyond that, he could make no predictions about what he might do next.

Once he was free of the Ministry's protective wards, he Apparated to the alley behind Wheezes. He could have walked in through the front entrance — which he imagined Thayer had done — but he didn't want to draw George's attention. So he waved his wand at the back door, knowing he was one of only a handful of people whose wand would grant him access to the building's back stairs, and ran up to the door of Hermione's flat taking the steps two at a time.

He stood at the doorway and listened for a moment. It was not just quiet — it was dead silent, which made him wonder if she'd reinforced the door with a protective spell. If so, he could knock until his knuckles bled and she wouldn't hear him. A quick flick of his wand confirmed his suspicions. She'd sealed the door firmly. Fortunately, he'd watched Hermione set up protective enchantments enough times during the war to know all her old standby spells — and thanks to his Auror training, he now knew how to undo most of them. It was the work of sixty seconds to bring down the seal she'd placed on the doorway, and that's when he heard the muffled sound of crying from within.

His heart clenched momentarily, and then, gently, he knocked.

"Hermione," he murmured through the door. "Mione, it's me, Ron."

He heard a loud sniffle, and then there was quiet again.

"Mione, I'm sorry — you can hex me later if you want — but I'm coming in," he said, doing a quick Alomahora and turning the doorknob at the sound of the telltale click.

What he found shocked him: Hermione, sitting on the floor just feet from the door with her legs tucked beneath her, clutching a torn dressing gown about herself, her face flushed and wet.

"Oh Ronald," she sputtered before her eyes welled up with another wave of tears.

Ron swiftly dropped to his knees before her and took her shoulders in his hands, searching her face. "Mione … sweet Merlin, Mione, are you all right?" he asked breathlessly. "What happened?"

Hermione could only shudder, though the feeling of Ron's hands on her shoulders returned some sense of warmth to her body, which until then had felt strangely cold and shaky. She sniffled again and met Ron's gaze for the first time since he entered, and the sight of him — his brow furrowed, his eyes darting all around her face looking for signs that she was well — made her heart pang almost painfully. She paused to consider. Should she tell him? He obviously knew something was dreadfully wrong. She was so distracted by her distress that it took her a moment to remember that there was no one alive whom she trusted more than Ron, no one she more wanted to see in this moment. She was still rattled, still outraged, still devastated by what had just happened to her, but his presence made her feel somehow that it would be all right now that he was here.

In the fraction of a second that it took her to arrive at this conclusion, Ron felt as if he'd died a thousand deaths. His heart was pounding so hard, he could feel it in his ears. What on Earth had happened? What the buggering fuck was wrong? It surprised him to see her face brighten slightly.

"I'm all right," she whispered. "Honestly."

"All right?" he sputtered at a volume slightly louder than he'd meant to use. "You don't look all right," he continued, slightly more quietly, running his hands from her shoulders to her elbows and then back again. He didn't want to scare her but, bloody hell, he needed to know what was going on and he needed to know that instant. "Mione, maybe it's none of my business, but if you don't at least give me a rough idea of what's happened to you, I'll run mad."

She searched her mind for the right words, her eyes scanning his face … his freckles … the deep blue of his eyes. She struggled to know what to say.

"It was Thayer, wasn't it," Ron supplied. "Did he do something to you?"

Suddenly Hermione felt choked up again, swallowing several times to try to overcome the lump that had formed in her throat. She nodded as she dissolved into a fresh round of tears.

In all the years of the war, Ron had experienced rage and he'd experienced an eerie sense of calm in the midst of crisis, but never had he felt both simultaneously. At this moment, however, both sensations overtook him in equal measure. He needed to know more in order to decide what to do next — and yet, he'd already made up his mind. He knew what he had to do.

"Did he … did he hurt you, Hermione?" Ron said calmly, tipping his head slightly to catch her gaze.

She nodded again, hiccuping on a deep gulp of breath. "He tried, anyway," she whispered between hiccups. Ron slipped his hands from her shoulders down her arms and to her hands, taking them in both of his. As he did so, he looked down and noticed a fresh-looking mark on her wrist — reddened skin that was slowly turning black-and-blue.

"Did he do this to you?" he asked quietly.

She nodded again.

"He tried … he tried to force himself on you, didn't he," Ron continued, keeping his voice as even as possible.

Hermione squeezed his hands with hers. "He tried, but … well, he grabbed me and he kissed me, but I got away from him," she rasped.

That was all Ron needed to hear. He leaned back slightly on his knees and looked her over. "You're really all right, though? Is there anything else?"

Hermione shook her head and shuddered again. "That's all. Honestly."

"That's enough, of course," Ron added. "That's more than enough. Now, I need you to be very honest with me right now, love. Are you truly OK? No pain anywhere? No cuts? Nothing?"

Hermione blew a quick puff of air through her lips and managed a slight smile. "I'm fine, Ronald, truly. Just a little shaken is all. I didn't invite him here. He just showed up and … and … well, he caught me off-guard."

Ron grimaced and clenched his jaw. He knew she was trying to reassure him — and he didn't entirely believe her when she said she was fine — but he had other matters to attend to at the moment.

He pulled her hands to his chest and tipped his head down again to meet her eye. "Will you be OK here for just a few minutes without me?"

Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. Before she could speak, Ron continued, "I'll be away less than five minutes. I promise, Mione."

She didn't know quite what he was on about or what he had in mind, but she decided to trust him. She pursed her lips and nodded.

"All right, then, let's get you sorted," Ron said, letting go of her hands and rising to his feet. He reached down and plucked her up from the floor in his arms, and Hermione couldn't help letting out a little squeak of surprise. He carried her to the sofa and set her down gently, then reached for the throw that Molly had knitted for Hermione as a moving-in gift. He draped it over Hermione's lap and tucked it in. "You stay right here," he said as he straightened up again. "Don't worry. Don't fret. Just sit tight and let me handle this, all right?"

Hermione shook her head slightly. "What are you going to do, Ron?" she said weakly.

But Ron was already looking around the flat, assessing his next steps. "You let me worry about that, love. I promise I'll explain everything in just a few minutes," he added. "But first, I need you to listen to me, OK?"

He returned his gaze to her. "I'm going to seal the flat from the outside so absolutely, positively no one can get in here but me, all right? Will that make you feel safer while I'm gone?"

She nodded again.

"Good. See you in a few, then," he said, bending low to kiss her forehead and then turning quickly to stride away.

Before opening the door to leave, he stopped to look back at her one more time. Gods, he thought, she looks so small and so vulnerable sitting there under that knitted blanket. And yet, bloody hell, she fended off a fricking Auror, didn't she. He was impressed, as always. But he'd think about that later. First, he had business to attend to.

He gave her a little smile and a nod then stepped into the hallway, closing and sealing the door behind him. Then he sent a quick Patronus to Harry, knowing he'd be wondering where both Ron and Hermione were by now.

"Harry, I'm with Hermione. Everything's fine. Don't worry. I'll fill you in later."

With that, he returned to the alley out back and Apparated away.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Ron knew exactly where he needed to go.

On the way there, though, he marveled that his mind was as clear as it was. He had half expected to be nearly cross-eyed with rage. But, surprisingly, his fury — deep and intense though it was — rendered him focused, centered. His wrath was entirely concentrated on one person.

Walking determinedly through the Ministry Atrium and toward the lifts, his mind played over scenes from his years of knowing Hermione — the times when he'd stood up for her as well as the times he'd wished he had, the times when he'd failed her, the times when he'd been on the verge of baring his heart to her and then, for one reason or another, never did. He realized that it didn't really matter now — his heartache didn't amount to anything, was entirely beside the point . What mattered now was Hermione, protecting her, doing whatever it took to be sure that this creep didn't take away something more precious than anything he could think of in the world — Hermione's confidence, her well-being, her sense of self. Ron couldn't erase the past, he couldn't forget his transgressions, he couldn't reverse the damage that he himself had done, but he could do this: He could pound a good, hard lesson into Aris Thayer's head.

He was betting that Thayer was still by his locker trying to reverse Hermione's jinx, and when he swung the doors to the Auror Department locker room, he saw that he'd bet right. There, leaning toward a mirror and waving a wand around his face in the otherwise empty locker room, was Thayer. Every Auror knew counterjinxes, of course, and clearly Thayer had employed a few to undo whatever Hermione had blasted at him, but her spell must have been remarkably strong, because his face was still puffy around the eyes, and his skin remained red and inflamed.

Ron stood still in the doorway for what perhaps added up to only a second or two, but in that span of time, it was as if his entire life — at least the portion that involved his tortured relationship with Hermione — played itself out before him. A parade of people who'd hurt her or tried to hurt her over years passed before his eyes, from Draco Malfoy to Bellatrix Lestrange to, he realized with horror, Ron himself, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest at the thought of it. Hermione Effing Granger, who, along with Harry, was one of the most amazing, upstanding and courageous people he'd ever known or ever would know, had to endure so many cruelties large and small for who she was, for what she was, and it wasn't right. A universe where Hermione Effing Granger — war hero, advocate for the less fortunate, risk-taker, borderline genius — was reduced to tears, shivering in fear within her own home was a universe that was seriously fucked up and required righting immediately. And he was the one who was going to sort it out — not because he had a right to do it, not because he was her friend, not because he had some sort of claim on her heart, but because Decency and Order demanded it. No one — No. One. — was going to fuck with Hermione Effing Granger anymore, not while there was breath in his body. And this tosser before him now, dabbing Dittany on his jinx wounds, was going to be the first to receive the memo.

At that moment, Thayer finally noticed Ron's reflection in the mirror. He straightened up and turned to look through puffy-lidded eyes at Ron, a slight smile crossing his still-inflamed lips.

"I should have known I'd see you again tonight, Weasley," Thayer said with a sneer, flinching at the pain that stabbed at him with even the slightest movement of his mouth.

The sound of Thayer's voice was all the trigger Ron needed. He took one step, then two, and soon — surprisingly quickly, to Thayer's mind — he was across the room, legs spread, hauling back his arm, then swinging it forward and watching his clenched fist land forcefully on Thayer's face, crushing first his cheekbone and then sliding across to his nose, which crumpled beneath his knuckles with a satisfying crunch. Thayer's head flopped backward, his jinx-swollen lips forming a painful "O."

Ron smiled as he straightened up to his full height while Thayer staggered backward, cradling the side of his face with his hand.

"What the entire, actual, ever-loving fuck, Weasley?" Thayer bellowed as he tried to regain his balance and then bent forward to rest his hands on his knees.

"Don't," Ron growled in reply. "Do. Not. Speak. Don't speak or you'll get another."

"Fuck you, arsehole," said Thayer, who was still stooped over and watching blood pour from his nostrils onto the floor. "Let me guess … this is about Granger, eh? Came running to you, did she?"

Ron didn't hesitate, lunging forward at Thayer and toppling him to the ground, taking pleasure in watching the man's head thud against the floor. "I told you to shut your gob, you bastard," Ron said roughly, pulling himself back to his feet to stand over Thayer while pointing his finger toward Thayer's face, his chest heaving. "Shut up. Shut up and listen to me good. If you ever, _ever_ lay another finger on her, if you ever so much as look at her the wrong way, if you ever say _anything_ against her — no, check that — if you ever even _think_ something against her, you'll get this and more. Do you understand me?"

Thayer, still sprawled on the floor, nodded weakly.

"Good," said Ron. He thought about doing more — kicking him in the balls would be satisfying. Kicking him anywhere would be satisfying. But he held back, reckoning that he could always do that and more later. For now, he reckoned, his work was done.

He strode back toward the lifts and back out to the Apparition Zone, knowing that he couldn't truly call his work completely done this night until he checked back in with Hermione and made sure she was perfectly all right. He had promised her he'd only be gone for a few minutes. And he was determined that, from now on, every promise he ever made to her would be fulfilled.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

The door clicked shut behind Ron and Hermione heard the gentle swooshing sound that indicated he'd magically sealed it. She sat and stared at the door from her seat on the sofa, where Ron had placed her so carefully, and blinked back another swell of tears. She had no idea how or why Ron had sought her out this evening, but she was so glad he had. She couldn't think of anyone — not even her parents, not even Harry, not even Ginny — that she would have wanted to see more at such a moment. Through all the difficulty and misunderstanding that had come between them since the war, she had almost forgotten how much she relied on him. Would she always be able to do so? The very question made her shiver slightly, and then she remembered that she was still barely dressed, despite the afghan that Ron had so gently tucked around her legs.

He had promised he would be back soon, and she knew she could take him at his word. She decided that she'd rather not be wearing a tattered dressing gown when he returned, so she pulled herself up from the sofa and shuffled into the bedroom, where she stepped into her flannel pyjama bottoms, a grey vest and the big maroon Weasley jumper that Ron had lent to her years before and she'd never returned. As always, she savored the warm and comfy feeling that overtook her whenever she wore it.

She piled her hair on top of her head in a loose bun, stuck her wand in it, then pulled on a fluffy pair of socks and rolled up the sleeves of the jumper so they no longer covered her hands. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she had to chuckle and shake her head despite her upset. After all, it wasn't so long ago that she was standing here fussing over what she might wear to impress Ron that night. The outfit she'd just put on was hardly eye-catching, but she figured comfort was a higher priority now.

She was just leaving the bedroom when the lock on the door clicked open and Ron stuck his head in, looking a bit startled that she was no longer seated on the sofa. Standing in the doorway, he looked to her and she stopped in her tracks within the short hallway that connected her bedroom to the lounge. "I'm all right, Ronald," she said softly. "Honestly."

He smiled slightly. "OK," he said. "Um, may I come in, then?"

He was still holding the door open — half in, half out.

Hermione nodded. "Of course," she said. "Please. Please come in."

She stepped toward him and, as he closed the door behind him and entered the lounge, her eyes were drawn to his right hand.

"Ronald, you're bleeding," she said.

"Huh? Where?" he sputtered.

He looked down and, sure enough, his knuckles were bruised and he had a fairly nasty gash across two of them — a gash that was dripping a surprising amount of blood. He'd been so distracted that he hadn't even noticed until then.

"Oh, blimey," he said. "Sorry, I, uh—"

He was rummaging around in his pockets with his left hand, hoping to find a handkerchief, but she was quicker than he was, rushing forward, taking his hand in hers, and then reaching up to pull her wand from her bun to Conjure a bandage out of thin air.

"Here," she said as she wrapped his injured hand in the cloth. "Come sit and let me take a look at that."

Before Ron could argue, Hermione was leading him by the hand and settling him down onto the sofa where she had been sitting not five minutes before. She knelt on the floor between his knees and carefully unwrapped the bandage she'd just placed on his hand, examining the wound closely. "Accio Dittany," she murmured with a swish of her wand, and a bottle came flying from her bathroom cabinet. She Conjured some cotton wool and began tending to his injury, her brow furrowed in concentration, her teeth biting gently into her lower lip.

He winced as the Dittany took effect — he had never enjoyed the stinging feeling that Dittany brought on, though he knew there was nothing better to promote quick healing. Still, he almost wished the healing would take a bit more time, because he was enjoying the attention Hermione was paying to his injury, slight though it was compared to other injuries she'd nursed him through over the years. She was lovingly fussing over him, and he soaked it up like rays of early spring sunshine after a long, cold winter.

Hermione wasn't satisfied that the cut was healed enough, and so Conjured a fresh ball of cotton wool and applied another round of Dittany. As she dabbed and prodded, she couldn't help but love having an excuse to hold his hand — though she was certain it couldn't have been terribly enjoyable for him. His knuckles were pretty well banged-up, and she reckoned his entire hand had to ache terribly. Still, she'd always, always loved his hands. She couldn't say why exactly. They were just hands, after all. But they were so long and bony and, well, perfect … strong and yet gentle. Exquisite and graceful. Large and expressive. She adored his hands. And she realized just how ridiculous it was that she was thinking such things at a time like this.

"What happened?" she whispered as she continued her work. Her words snapped Ron from his reverie. He'd been openly staring at her, watching a lock of her hair bob in front of her forehead as she leaned over his hand.

"What, to me?" Ron said distractedly.

She harrumphed and flashed a brief, smiling look at him before returning her eyes to his battered knuckles. "Yes, what happened to _you_ ," she said with a small, nervous laugh. "Your hand wasn't bleeding like this when you left."

Ron shrugged. "I, erm … well, I knocked it into something, I guess."

Still looking down at his hand and dabbing at it, she asked, "Into what?"

Ron rolled his eyes, wondering if what he was about to say might cause a row.

"Into Aris Thayer's face," he said.

Well, she was brilliant, after all, he thought. She must have known what he planned to do when he left the flat. But … maybe she didn't. He couldn't be sure anymore.

So he was slightly surprised when she looked up at him and, rather than chastising him for resorting to violence, she melted into a slightly open-mouthed smile, her eyebrows raised in a look of astonishment and — hang on, was that approval?

"You … you … are you saying that you punched him?" Hermione said after a moment.

"Uh, well, yeah, I did, and he got off easy if you ask me. When he hit the floor, I thought about giving him a good swift kick, too, but then I stopped myself."

Hermione's heart fluttered. She could feel her face heating up, a sure sign that she was blushing profusely. Even as this happened, she felt silly — wasn't she always saying that violence never solved anything? Though she promptly remembered the perverse pleasure she had taken in punching Draco Malfoy in the nose and hexing Marietta Edgecombe for being a tattletale. So … maybe she wasn't one to judge Ron's actions. But wait — she _wasn_ ' _t_ judging. That was the amazing part. She was thrilled. Beyond thrilled. Giddy, even. Ronald Weasley had punched Aris Thayer in the face. For her. She felt a familiar glow — one she recognized immediately as a shimmer of memory from second year, when Ron had jinxed Malfoy, or attempted to, in her defense — and it made her pulse quicken. Ron had tracked Aris down … for _her_ … and delivered at least a small measure of Justice. Gods.

"So, what happened?" she whispered breathlessly.

"When?" said Ron. "You mean, when I punched that wanker?"

She smiled a bit more widely. She couldn't help it. He was so freaking adorable. All she could do was bite her lower lip and nod.

"Oh, well," he said, trying desperately not to move his hand for fear that she might remember she was holding it and therefore let it go. "There's not much to tell, really. I mean, I was pretty certain I knew where he was, and I went there, and then I, uh ... well I guess you might way I applied my fist to his face."

Hermione gasped.

"There was a lot of blood," Ron continued, feeling a bit nervous for some reason as his ears heated up. "Pouring out of him, actually. It was kind of gross. And then I told him if he ever did anything like that again to you, if he ever even thought of doing anything like that again to you … well, I warned him, that's all."

From her place on the floor, Hermione knelt before him, spellbound, drinking him in as he told his tale. The way he couldn't seem to look directly at her, almost bashfully retelling his tale of heroism, made her heart flip. She was so moved that she'd done such a thing, and for her, and that he'd seemed so sheepish about it. It was the kind of gesture, she knew, that someone like Aris Thayer would crow about, and yet, here was Ron, looking as if he'd rather talk about almost anything else.

She was overtaken with a tremendous wave of tenderness and gratitude. Looking up into Ron's face, his blue eyes averted from hers slightly, she couldn't resist casting him in the role he'd always played in her mind — her slightly flawed though nonetheless irresistible knight. He wasn't precisely a knight in shining armor — he was too human for that — but she saw, with more clarity than she'd ever possessed before, that the dents and scrapes his armor had picked up along the way were the natural consequence of growing up. Yes, he'd hurt her from time to time — but she'd hurt him, too. They'd grown up side-by-side, after all, and this business of falling in love with one another … well, it wasn't so easy when the stakes were so high. And in that moment, she realized that, without even knowing it, she'd forgiven him. For everything. It was as if the years of heartache and disappointment had simply evaporated, at least for her, and a sense of lightness and maybe even joy — she wasn't sure, since the sensation was so new — filled her heart. The bitterness over missed opportunities and crossed signals melted away, replaced by much stronger memories of all the times he'd defended her, stood by her, and even, at Malfoy Manor, offered to trade his life for hers. How had she allowed any other memory to overrule that one? She cursed herself for her foolishness.

He was silent, still on tenterhooks, awaiting her response. But even as he watched her ponder his last words, his mind wandered. Oh gods, he thought, please don't let this moment end. Right now. This moment. She's here. I'm here. She's holding my hand. I'm holding hers. Thinking he might have to live on this memory for a good long time, he paid scrupulous attention to every detail of the scene before him, hoping he'd remember it all: the way the candle lit the corner of her cheek, the way a stray curl had tumbled from the bun atop her head to gently graze her shoulder, the way her skin felt against his as she slowly caressed his freshly healed knuckles.

That's when he did a mental double-take. _Hold on_ , he thought. _Is she stroking the back of my hand? Holy shit, I do believe she is._

Indeed, as she was thinking, Hermione had absent-mindedly begun to run her fingers across the new and smooth skin that now covered the back of his right hand, then directed her gaze to the knuckles that had, until a few moments ago, been so raw and bruised. She squeezed his hand between both of hers for a minute, and then, slowly and gently, she lowered her face and ever so lightly grazed her lips back and forth across his knuckles as a tear rolled from the corner of her eye and onto the back of his hand.

"Thank you," she whispered shakily against his hand. "Thank you for doing that for me, Ronald." Then she tilted her head and laid her cheek against his hand, looking away from him toward the floor.

Ron heard himself respond almost as if it was someone else doing the talking. "I'd do that and more for you, Mione," he said firmly, placing the palm of his free hand on her cheek. "I'd do anything you wish," he added. "Anything."

She lifted her head and tipped her eyes up to meet his gaze and found that he was smiling down at her — the half smile she had come to love so dearly — and he'd shifted the hand she'd been holding so that he now was holding her face in both of his hands.

She sniffled slightly and then whispered, "Anything?"

He nodded, his smile broadening just a bit.

"Would you kiss me, then?" she asked in a barely audible voice.

Ron couldn't resist these words. He'd dreamed of scenes much like this one for years, and though he felt somewhat light-headed, he knew this was no dream. This was real. And the smile on his face widened even more.

He leaned forward, still cupping her face in his hands, but then paused to look her over — to _really_ look at her, because he knew this was one of those moments he'd want to remember forever, to maybe tell his kids about someday. The first time he kissed Hermione Granger. Hermione Effing Granger. Gods. She was a mess. Her hair was falling from the bun she'd created atop her head, her eyes were puffy from crying, her nose was a bit red. In short, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"I love you, you know," he said, looking deep into her eyes.

She nodded.

"I love you, too," she answered, a grin lighting up her tear-streaked face.

And, with that, he closed the distance between them, lowering his lips to hers and brushing them together gently, amazed at how soft and smooth her mouth was, how warm and pillowy and inviting and gods he never wanted to stop kissing her if he could help it. But even as he thought this, he remembered what she'd been through that night and he restrained himself, choosing to let her set the pace, staying cautious for her cues.

Hermione, for her part, was transported. If someone had asked her who Aris Thayer was at that very moment, she would have drawn a blank. She couldn't have cared less. Ronald Bilius Weasley, _her_ Ronald Bilius Weasley, was kissing her, and that was all that mattered.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Ron traced Hermione's lower lip with the tip of his tongue then tugged it lightly between both of his, sucking on it gently before pressing his mouth more firmly over hers. She hummed into his kiss and looped her arms around his neck. But even then, he was holding back, trying his damnedest not to let himself get carried away. More than once, as they'd been kissing gently and quietly — him still seated on the sofa, her still kneeling between his legs — he reminded himself of the state she was in when he first found her earlier this evening, crumpled on the floor, tearful and shivering.

But the vision she presented now — eyes alight, a grin shining from her face even as they continued to kiss — was such a stark contrast from her condition just an hour or so earlier, and it made his heart soar to think that he'd done something that could have helped transport her from misery to delight so quickly. With that thought, he sunk his hands, which had until then been brushing her cheeks, that much deeper into her hair and cradled her head more firmly, an action that sent shivers down Hermione's spine. She gripped his wrists and marveled at what a remarkably good kisser he was, and secretly laughed to herself that, irony of ironies, she very likely had Lavender to thank for that.

She could hardly believe the turn this night had taken — actually, the turn her entire life had taken. After years of longing for this impossible, maddening, adorable man, he was there now, in her flat, kissing her tenderly and whispering "I love yous" against her lips at every opportunity. Not for the first time since he'd first kissed her — so softly, so carefully — she wondered if she'd been dreaming.

But no. It was real. He was really there, and she was so intoxicated by his kisses that she had entirely forgotten what brought them together that evening. Whatever it was, it hardly mattered anymore, did it. She was lost in these thoughts when Ron pulled away slightly from her lips and, instead of repeating "I love you," as he'd done at least a dozen times by then, he murmured, "Are you sure you're quite all right?"

She nodded and said, "I am, truly," knowing that he was still concerned about what had happened earlier with Aris, but wishing she could ease his mind. She straightened up a bit to face him, and was delighted by what she saw. His hair, now freshly mussed since she'd been running her fingers through it, was standing in ten different directions. His cheeks were flushed. His eyes were misted over with happy tears, and that cockeyed smile of his … she was powerless to resist it, even if she'd wanted to. She was completely and utterly his — and she was quite certain he still had no idea, really.

She knew she must have had a giant, mildly ridiculous grin on her face, but honestly, she couldn't remember any time in her life when she'd been this happy, and she couldn't stop herself from breaking out in giggles — that is, when Ron wasn't snogging her — and since she was now far enough away from him to study his face, she felt another round of giggles coming on.

"What?" Ron said, joining in her laughter as he slid his hands from her cheeks to her shoulders and then down to her elbows.

"I don't know, I'm just … I just can't believe … I mean, this is _us_ , isn't it?" she sputtered between chuckles, shaking her head in wonderment. "Us not rowing, us not second-guessing one another, us not trying to ignore one another. It's just …"

"It's just us loving one another," he answered as she struggled to find the words to finish her thought.

The simplicity of that statement so astonished her that her giggling ceased. She examined his face, eyes roving over every freckle, every golden eyelash, every blue fleck in his eyes. "Yes," she answered quietly. "This is us loving one another," she added in a tone of wonderment. "Finally."

Ron chose that moment to reach down and hoist her upward so she was straddling his lap, and though he was aware that any other couple in such a position would immediately snog one another senseless, he knew that he and Hermione were no ordinary couple. They'd been close for half their lives by then, but they'd never been in a position so … _intimate_. And it seemed that every small step they took toward acting like an ordinary couple would required a brief period of … well … adjustment. After literally years of mutually longing for this exact thing, it seemed both of them remained slightly boggled that their wish was coming true.

He tentatively wrapped his arms around her waist, and she reciprocated by looping her hands over his shoulders. Then he leaned his forehead against hers and nuzzled her nose with his.

"This is weird and right at the same time," he said softly, the crooked smile on his face widening a bit.

"Mmm," she hummed as she angled her nose along his. "I know what you mean," she added, biting her lip to try to keep from grinning like an idiot.

They sat like that, both thinking, savoring the feeling of finally being this close, for a few moments before Ron spoke up again.

"How long?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

He instantly winced at himself, wondering what was the matter with him that he wasn't just kissing her instead of quizzing her. Still … for some reason, he wanted to know. He needed to know.

He cleared his throat. "How long have you, erm … you know," he continued at a whisper. "How long have you loved me? I mean, uh, when did it start?"

Her heart throbbed at the question because … well, it was a natural thing to ask, something she wanted to ask him, for that matter. But the way he brought it up was just so _Ron_.

She leaned back to face him and was surprised at the view of him from this new angle, for she was slightly higher than he was, perched there atop his knees. She was used to looking up at him from below. His eyes were wide, eyebrows raised expectantly, like a child waiting to hear a favorite bedtime story.

She reached out her hand and caressed his cheek with her fingertips, another simple action that felt so new, so bold — something that would have been unthinkable, forbidden as recently as an hour earlier, and yet something that she had yearned to do so many times. The novelty of it, and all the layers of meaning and precedent that had just occurred to her, occurred to him, too, and she knew it from the warm curve that came to his lips and the way he leaned into her hand as she cupped his cheek more firmly. He kissed her palm, his eyes never leaving hers.

She started slowly. "It began so long ago now that it seems as if I've loved you all my life," she said quietly. "We were so little in first year, weren't we. I don't think I could have known what I felt back then, but I do know that I was deeply impressed with what you did for Harry when we were chasing down the Philosopher's Stone. That you were willing to sacrifice yourself in that giant chess game … goodness, you were so brave," she said, tucking his hair behind his ear. "I remember thinking about that a lot in the days and weeks afterward, wondering what it meant that I always felt a little flutter in my chest when the subject crossed my mind. I respected your loyalty, and I think I may have wondered what it might feel like to be on the receiving end of it. I wanted to matter that much to you, and the thought of it sort of rattled me."

As she spoke, she slowly trailed her fingers from his cheek — surprisingly soft — into his hair, which she'd always longed to feel, then down his neck and back to his shoulder. Ron tingled at her touch, though he was also transfixed by her words. Honestly, he hadn't expected such an elaborate answer, and he was gobsmacked by it. But she had more to say.

"I think I started to realize I fancied you, though, when you tried to curse Malfoy and your spell backfired on you," she said with a grin.

"Yeah, that was smooth," Ron said, rolling his eyes.

"That's just it," she replied, slipping her hands down to his chest and looking intently at the buttons on his shirt as she fiddled with them to distract herself from the embarrassment of what she was about to say, her voice choked with emotion. She felt her cheeks turn pink. "It _wasn't_ smooth. It was the opposite of smooth. That's what made it so lovable. You acted on impulse. You defended me. And to someone I knew you sometimes envied for his wealth and his privilege. You — a pureblood, someone who could easily have fit in with Malfoy's gang if you'd wanted to — defended me, a 'mudblood'—"

"Don't use that word," Ron said forcefully, cutting her off. "Don't ever use that word to describe yourself, Hermione. Your magic is ten times what Malfoy's is."

She shook her head. "There it is again," she said, looking into his eyes and capturing his face in her hands. "You stood up for me, Ronald, when loads of other wizards who were raised in the magical world wouldn't have, and you did it without thinking twice. I don't know if I can ever make you understand how much that meant to me. Think about it. Second year was a long time ago. I had only been aware of what I was for a year or two at that point. I had you and Harry as friends, but in many ways you were _all_ I had. I still felt so alone in this world that was still so new to me. And yet, you stood up for me. You were willing to fight for me. Honestly, I don't think I've been the same since."

She leaned forward and tucked herself against his chest, still clutching the front of his shirt in one hand as her shoulder slid into the crook of his arm, her face pressed against his neck. He wrapped her in a tight embrace, thunderstruck by what she'd said. He had no idea that one moment, so long ago, had meant quite so much to her. He thanked his lucky stars that he'd had the instinct back then to do the right thing and to follow through on it. If he hadn't, he wondered if he'd have been so fortunate as to have earned her love.

As these thoughts swirled in his mind, he tightened his hold on her, caressing her back slowly with his hands. Being wrapped up in his arms this way was yet another new experience for her. She remembered, of course, that he had held her before, but it was usually in times of crisis, danger or intense sadness. To be held by him, simply held by him, when there was no imminent threat, nothing to grieve, seemed to her to be the ultimate luxury, and she basked in it.

After a few minutes, she tilted her face to press her lips to the slightly stubbly underside of his chin in a gentle kiss, then whispered, "What about you?"

He knew the answer. He'd thought about it a hundred times before. But now that he had to say it, he found it difficult to pin down. He sighed and kissed her forehead before giving her a gentle squeeze in his arms. He knew that once he and Hermione had established their friendship in first year, she was _his_ , as much as Harry was. That's the way it always was for Ron. He didn't have much in the way of material possessions, which perhaps made him even more fierce than most about protecting what he did have, what was far more precious to him: the people in his life. He was like that about his family — though he recognized they were far from perfect, they were _his_ , and he'd be damned if anybody was going to say or do anything against them, at least not while he had breath in his body. Harry and, a short while later, Hermione, had somehow been transformed from friends into family in his mind — perhaps because they were newcomers to wizardkind, he may have appointed himself their minder in his own head. Regardless, Harry and Hermione were _his_ as much as any Weasley by the time second year rolled around. The protective and even possessive feelings that he'd harbored for Hermione were a mystery to him at that age, however. When he thought about it at all — which was rarely back then — he reckoned it was a brotherly feeling though, even then, he began to suspect that there might be a little more to it, especially when other boys noticed her, as they were beginning to do. The way he worried about her when she was away on holidays … the fluttery feeling he got when he was about to see her again after a long absence … the way he sometimes worried what would happen if she started hanging around with another bloke … these were his earliest clues that he hoped Hermione could be more than a friend.

"I know you think I didn't really get it until the Yule Ball," Ron eventually said, "but honestly, I had an idea long before then. Do you remember that time in third year when we went to Hogsmeade together by ourselves?" he asked.

"Mmm hmm."

"That's really when I began to piece it together," he said. "All day long, I just wanted to hold your hand. Nearly did one time, when we were leaving the Broomsticks, but then I sort of chickened out. Some Gryffindor, eh?"

She laughed and nuzzled his neck with her cheek, a simple motion that sparked another wave of that "sweet Merlin we're a couple now" feeling.

"I can hardly believe that we're together here like this," Ron blurted, then realized that his meaning might not have been clear. "It's just, gods Mione, to finally be able to, well, to just hold you in my arms and talk to you, tell you what I'm really thinking … it's incredible."

"I know exactly what you mean," she answered, leaning up to look him in the face. "After holding back for all those years, dying to touch you and having to force myself not to …" Her voice trailed off and she bit her lower lip. "Those are tough habits to break, aren't they."

Just then, Ron's stomach rumbled — rather loudly — and after a beat or two, they both dissolved in hysterics.

"Oi! I can't help it," he said, laughing so hard that his eyes were watering. "I haven't had any dinner!"

Hermione was laughing so hard that she'd fallen back on the sofa.

"Hey, seriously," he said, still chuckling. "Who else do I have to punch in the face to get a meal around here?"

This remark set off another wave of open-mouthed laughter for Hermione, who had rolled off the sofa and was now lying on the floor. "Oh gods … OK, OK," she said, trying to collect herself after a minute. "How do fish and chips sound?" she asked, looking up at him while clutching her stomach.

Still chuckling, he nodded, because he knew exactly what she was talking about — the fish and chips shop just around the corner from Wheezes. With that, he stood and reached out his hand to pull her up from the floor. "Make yourself presentable, woman, and let's go."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Hermione had slipped on the outfit she laid out earlier that evening and was glad she did — because she knew she looked more than presentable in it. She looked good. While Ron had waited in the lounge, whistling and shuffling through her bookshelves — pulling out a couple of books on chess that apparently once belonged to her father — she had taken a few minutes to dab on a touch of makeup and to sort out her hair, using a taming spell that Fleur had taught her, a maneuver that relaxed her curls and made them fall in gentle waves about her face and shoulders.

So when she emerged from the bedroom, feeling strangely shy all of a sudden, her heart thumped at the look on Ron's face, for he was well and truly impressed. The chess book in his hands was forgotten, and as his eyes roved up and down her frame to finally settle on her face, his mouth dropped open ever so slightly before curling into a smile. "Sweet Merlin, you're gorgeous," he breathed without thinking, then snapped back to the present, his ears turning red and his right hand reflexively reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "Erm, I mean," he sputtered, and then he interrupted himself again, straightening up to his full height. "Wait a tick," he said with a laugh. "I get to say that now, don't I?"

Hermione, who had been rooted to the spot, her back leaning against the bedroom door, her hands still on the doorknob behind her, could only bite her lip, nod, and notice how warm her face felt. "Mmm hmm," she hummed. "I suppose you can say that and more now," she added, trying to suppress a giant grin that she felt could be misinterpreted as her being full of herself, when really she merely wanted to squeal with delight that he'd finally noticed her, that he'd finally looked at her the way she always wished he would.

In truth, he'd noticed her and looked at her very much that way for years, but she could be forgiven at this point for not being aware of it. They both stood there for verging on a full minute, once again stunned by each new step they were taking and what it meant. While she savored his appreciative gaze, he savored being able to admire her openly without having to worry about being caught. Over the years, he'd mastered the sidelong glance, the surreptitious observation, the private glimpse. The fact that he could now simply look at her — unguarded, unhurried, unimpeded — was something that would take some getting used to.

He noticed that she had taken care with her appearance, had done something to her hair. As far as he was concerned, she didn't have to, because he loved her exactly as she was. But it still warmed his heart that she'd done it, that she'd sought to please him, and he couldn't help it — his face warmed up as his smile widened. He knew he was blushing but then, so was she.

He slid the book back into its place on the shelf, surprised that he still had the presence of mind to do so, and then reached out a hand to her. "C'mere then," he said gently, "and let me have a better look at you."

She leaned away from the door and stepped tentatively forward, taking his hand and letting him draw her to him. She stood before him at arm's distance, and he took his free hand and lifted it to her cheek and then nestled his fingers in her hair, his eyes roving over her forehead, her nose, her eyes and then finally her lips. "Hermione Granger," was all he could say, his gaze still trained on her mouth, and he kissed her that way, eyes open, softly and serenely.

She answered in much the same way, lifting herself on tiptoe to better meet his lips, and ran the fingers of her free hand tenderly over his chin. She couldn't get over how soft his skin was — that is, where there wasn't ginger scruff. And to be this close to him, his lips lingering over hers, the warmth of his breath on her skin, the heat emanating from his blushing face, was a potent brew. She felt somewhat light-headed from it.

That is, until his stomach rumbled again and they broke apart in laughter.

"All right, all right," she said with a laugh. "Let's feed you up before you pass out."

And so they walked hand-in-hand to the fish and chips spot, feeling for the first time in their lives like a regular couple out for a stroll on a Friday night. Ron could hardly believe how right her little hand felt in his, and he kept looking down at it every few seconds as they walked 'round the corner, smiling at the sight. Hermione, meanwhile, gripped his elbow with her free hand so that she could stroll that much nearer to him, enjoying the feeling of her shoulder rubbing against his arm.

At the shop, Ron insisted on paying and Hermione let him do so without making a fuss, knowing that despite the fact that they both now had plenty of money between them, such things were and always would be a matter of pride for Ron, having grown up as he did with so little and feeling it so keenly. They sat in a booth by the front window and talked as if it was the most natural thing in the world for them to be together this way, Ron regaling Hermione with stories from the previous week of training, Hermione updating him on the progress she and Kingsley were making on the house elf legislation. Ron finished well before she did and took to stealing chips from her plate, which she objected to melodramatically before dissolving into laughter and then feeding him chips one by one. He ordered another round of butterbeers and they lingered for a bit, chatting and holding hands as customers came and went. They were recognized, of course, but they hardly cared.

On the way back to Hermione's, Ron dragged her into a sweets shop and bought a giant block of chocolate, which they shared — well, Ron actually ate most of it — as they slowly zigged and zagged down the lane, looking into shop windows and breathing in the night air.

Both of them at one point or another considered whether it would be good form to make an appearance at the Leaky, but each privately dismissed it before ever bringing it up. Instead, Ron dropped her hand and draped his arm about her shoulder as they walked on. Hermione likewise looped her arm around his waist, and they proceeded back toward Hermione's flat, each thinking how well they fit together side-by-side, like two puzzle pieces that had finally snapped into place.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

They alternated between moments of comfort and familiarity — the way two people who had been friends since they were 11 should feel — and spasms of shy awkwardness, as if they had only just met. Their arrival at the door of Hermione's flat was one of those delicate moments, because it dawned on them that the evening could very well draw to a close at this point, with Ron bidding her good night — and neither one wanted that — or it could continue, though neither was quite sure what that might mean. Of course, neither gave voice to these misgivings. Instead, when the newness of the situation presented itself, they simply grew quiet, eyes averted, and smiled through blushing cheeks. It was delightful torture.

As Hermione went to unlock the door, Ron reached out and stilled her wand hand by the wrist.

"You know, Hermione, I was able to break through your sealing spells earlier — not that there was anything wrong with them, but I know what you use, and any Auror would be able to sort it out, too," he said.

She looked up at him in the darkness of the hallway. "What do you recommend, then?" she asked, in a way that lacked any sense of defiance or irritation, he noted, and his heart skipped a beat, for this was a situation that, in the past, might have led to a row, because in less amiable times, she might have perceived his comment as a knock on her magic, an attempt to one-up her. But the tone of her voice, the expression on her face, told him that she was genuinely interested to know his recommendation, that she acknowledged he might know more about this sort of thing than she did now that he was an Auror, and his chest puffed a bit with pride.

"I recommend you use a Blood Charm — Sanguinem Claustrum would do the trick — to be sure that only people you really trust can enter this doorway," he said confidently.

She pursed her lips and thought about it. "That's a pretty extreme locking charm," she said after a moment.

"Yeah, but I don't think it's overkill. Until every last Death Eater is put away, Mione, I know I'd breathe easier if you had a spell like Sanguinem in place here. You can add people like Harry and Ginny and your parents and George — anyone you like — as they come over to visit."

"OK," she said after another moment. "How does it work?"

He walked her through the spell. She followed his instructions carefully, waving her wand in a "Z" motion over the door while saying the incantation Sanguinem Claustrum. Then, he showed her how to use her wand to make a small incision in his right index finger, at which point he squeezed a drop of blood onto the doorknob. She performed the second incantation, Sanguinem Exceptio, next, as he instructed, and the doorknob glowed bright red before returning to normal.

"There," he said as she healed his finger. "Now I'm the only person other than you who can enter. The doorway will recognize me."

She looked up at him and smiled. "You're brilliant, you are," she whispered.

"Only because you taught me so well," he answered, lowering his lips to hers and kissing her lightly. He straightened up quickly, though, realizing that he might have been pushing his luck — it was easy to forget how this night began, and he didn't want to do anything that made her feel he had any expectations or might make her feel pressured.

"Would you, would you like to come in?" she asked tentatively, not wanting to seem too forward — while also absolutely dying for him to spend more time with her.

He nodded. "Absolutely."

"OK, then," she said, "why don't you see how well that Sanguinem spell worked out?"

He reached for the doorknob and it clicked open.

"Genius," Hermione said with a laugh.

"I know. I amaze even myself sometimes," he said, opening the door wider to allow her to enter the flat first.

She stepped in and hung her cardigan on the hook by the door, hoping he didn't notice that her hands were trembling. He stood uneasily by the entryway until she willed herself into action, taking him by the hand and leading him into the lounge.

"Butterbeer?" she asked, dropping his hand and stepping away from him toward the kitchen.

"Sure," he answered, sticking his hands deep into his pockets.

She smiled at the adorable sight that he was. She knew him well enough to know that he was holding himself back, trying to be a gentleman and give her space. It was up to her to put him at ease.

She surprised him by returning to him, standing on tiptoe, placing her hands on his shoulders, and pressing her lips to his. "Make yourself at home," she said as she pulled away from him and returned to the kitchen.

He smiled and excused himself to freshen up in the loo while she grabbed two butterbeers from the icebox and washed her hands in the kitchen sink, satisfying herself that she'd got rid of any trace of the fish and chips.

When Ron returned to the lounge, Hermione was seated on the sofa and she had turned on her muggle stereo. It was playing Sam Cooke, an American crooner who was a favorite of Hermione's father's and thus a favorite of hers as well. Only a few candles illuminated the room, and he figured Hermione must have put up some sort of Silencing charm, because although her flat faced the back alleyway, the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley could normally still be heard from this spot. Hermione patted the seat next to her, feeling silly doing it, but was immediately rewarded when a giant smile graced Ron's face. He was next to her in a flash, sitting down and taking one of the butterbeers. They sat that way, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with their feet on the ottoman, just quietly sipping butterbeer and looking out the big picture window that provided a view of Diagon Alley's rooftops and the night sky beyond.

She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. He, in turn, rested his cheek on the top of her head.

"What was that sigh about?" he asked in a mildly teasing tone.

"Nothing in particular," she answered quickly but then, when she thought about it, she realized that was the absolute truth. "Nothing at all, honestly," she added. "I guess I'm just happy is all."

He was silent for a space of time during which Hermione, still leaning her forehead against his shoulder, had almost forgotten what she'd just said and instead had come to focus on the shape of his hands as he fingered the label on his now-empty bottle of butterbeer. Gods, he had beautiful hands.

But then, he spoke again.

"Are you truly?" he asked quietly. "Happy, I mean."

She straightened up to look at his face, and when she did she saw that he was smiling gently, though his eyes were somewhat misty.

She Levitated the beer bottles back to the kitchen before laying her wand on the ottoman. Then she took his face in her hands. "Ronald Weasley," she said firmly, "I promise you, from the bottom of my heart, that I have never been happier in my entire life than I am right now. Truly."

His smile warmed, and he lifted his hands to the back of hers, where they still rested on his cheeks. He then traced his fingertips down her arms until he reached her shoulders and then he pulled her close, looping his arms around her lower back and beneath her bum so he could scoop her up and seat her across his lap.

Once she was comfortably situated, he kept one arm clasped tight around her waist while raising his free hand to caress her cheek. "Hermione Granger," he whispered, "no matter how long I live, I will never forget this moment. I will never forget what it felt like just now to hear you say you're happy. If you'll let me, love, I'll do whatever it takes to hear you say just that over and over and over again for the rest of my life."

For a fleeting second, she wondered if she would ever get used to this new state they were in, because she was beginning to wonder if her heart could take it — each move, each statement, no matter how simple, caused a fluttering in her chest. This instant was no different. She leaned back an inch or so and looked deep into his eyes, in a way she'd never quite managed before. As she did, the meaning of what he'd said dawned on her quite literally like the sun coming up over her world, a world that had seemed pleasant enough until just then, when she could see it in its multi-colored glory, his words and the promise they held lighting every corner. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted some hand in making her feel that way. And he wanted to do it for the rest of his life.

"Oh, Ronald," she whispered, her lower lip wobbling, and he took that as an invitation to gently tug her closer to him, to tip her chin upward with the crook of his finger, and to place a gentle and lingering kiss on her lips.

He so wanted to deepen the kiss, but he didn't want to press the issue. He was aware that she wasn't as experienced as he was, and for that matter the events of the early evening were never far from his mind. Besides, there was a sweetness to innocently tasting her lips, to simply being near her, and he was content with that.

So he was surprised when, after a few delicious minutes of lightly brushing his lips against hers, he felt the tip of her tongue peek out experimentally against his lips for a just a flash of time, but it was enough to ignite his insides and make his nerve endings hum. She wanted more. He would wait, however, to be sure she knew she could lead the way. He would only go as far as she was comfortable.

A minute later, he felt it again. By then, she had slid her hands from his cheeks down along the sides of his neck, to his shoulders, and finally to his chest, which she was now caressing firmly — that is, when she wasn't gripping his collar in her fists and pulling herself even closer to him. She hummed against his lips now and then, breaking away slightly to whisper, "I love you so much."

Emboldened, he answered — "I love you too, Hermione. Forever. I'll never stop. Never." — and, opening his mouth a bit wider, he tasted her more deeply, and she answered him enthusiastically, until they were snogging energetically and clutching at each other, desperate to find a way to be even closer to one another than they already were.

Both were distracted, however, by the silver light that signaled the arrival of a Patronus, and soon Harry's stag had cantered into the room.

"Hey guys," came Harry's voice, "Ginny and I just arrived at Grimmauld Place and, uh, you're not here, Ron, so, umm … let us know how you're doing, mate. Just want to be sure everything's OK."

Ron slapped his palm to his forehead and groaned, and Hermione slid off his lap, giggling as her bum hit the cushion next to his legs.

"What's next? Is Mum going to Floo over?" Ron grumbled, though the smile on his face signaled he wasn't truly annoyed. "Hang on," he said, reaching for the wand in his back pocket. He looked at Hermione then kissed her through her giggles. "Don't think I'll ever have trouble Conjuring a Patronus again," he said quickly, then produced his silvery Jack Russell terrier. "No worries, Harry — I'm still here with Hermione. All's well. I'll explain it all later, OK?"

Hermione had to stifle a laugh.

"In the meantime, erm," Ron added, shooting an uncertain look at Hermione, "don't wait up, all right?"

Ron's terrier scampered about the room before zooming out the window and out of sight.

They were both still amused by Harry's message, but the interruption most definitely snapped them out of their fog. It was a stark reminder of the strange new situation they happened to find themselves in.

Ron could feel his ears turn red as he considered what to do or say next. Dropping his head, he reached around to rub the back of his neck and smiled sheepishly at Hermione from beneath his lashes. She smiled back at him hesitantly, rearranging herself so she was sitting next to him rather than sitting atop his lap.

"So, um," he mumbled. "Blimey, looks like it's getting late, isn't it."

"Hmm," she said, straightening her blouse and tucking her hair behind her ears in hopes of making it look somewhat more tame.

"I suppose I should," he said, cocking his head toward the doorway.

The very thought of him leaving made Hermione's chest ache. She knew she wasn't ready for, well, much more physical intimacy than what they'd already shared that night — at least, not _yet_ — but she also knew she couldn't bear the idea of him leaving, and not just because she was skittish about being alone after what Aris had pulled. It was simply that, now that they understood one another after so many years of disagreements and miscues, the last thing she wanted to do was to be apart from him, even for a night. And yet …

"I suppose I should get going," he continued, completing his thought.

"Please don't," Hermione said in a snap, instantly and firmly. She shrunk back a bit when she realized that she'd said these words out loud, but then she gathered her courage and looked him in the eye. "Stay," she breathed in a quieter voice. "Please."

Ron's mind did a backflip. Of course he wanted to stay. Bloody hell, as far as he was concerned, he never wanted to leave her side again. But … what was she saying, exactly? He was pretty certain she wasn't asking him to … well … and though he was nearly salivating at the thought of … well … he knew it wasn't the right time. And he wanted everything with Hermione to be right from now on. After years and years of getting it terribly and profoundly wrong, he was determined to do the right thing by her, always.

"Mione, I'll stay if you want me to, of course," he whispered, taking her hand in his, "but, um, I don't want you to think I would expect anything or, you know, want you to … well." Gods, he was already cocking this up, he thought, babbling away like a great ginger pillock. "I mean, of course I'll stay if it will make you feel safer after everything that's happened today. And I know I'll sleep better knowing you're not alone. I'll sleep here, though, on the sofa. Just toss me a pillow and a blanket and I'll be right as rain."

Hermione, by this time, was smiling rather broadly, though Ron was too flustered to notice. She found his discomfort irresistible for reasons she couldn't fathom but didn't care to bother about at the moment anyway. He simply _was_.

Hermione's answer to Ron's sofa suggestion was to shake her head, rise to her feet, and reach her hand out to him. He took took her hand gently, stood and followed her into the bedroom, which he realized with a gulp looked entirely different than it did the first and last time he'd seen it, on that day weeks ago when he helped her move in. Back then, it had been bright and sunny, of course, and the room was packed with boxes and crates. Hermione had since transformed it into a private sanctuary, and he realized as he looked around through widened eyes in the candlelight, that this cozy room was now so very, very her. The walls, which once were white, had been painted a serene, deep, ocean-colored blue with a touch of green. As she sorted through paint chips searching for the perfect color all those weeks ago, her mind kept turning back to this particular blue, and she realized the reason as she applied it to the walls: It was very much like — actually, almost exactly like — the color of Ron Weasley's eyes. This thought made her smile when she first stepped back to look at the results, and it made her smile now as he entered the room and took it in, though she doubted she would ever share this particular detail with him.

He grinned as he noticed the bookshelves lining one corner of the room — this was _Hermione's_ room, after all. Books were displayed there in an orderly way, but she'd also tucked in muggle-style and wizarding photographs and trinkets from her travels. There was a small desk near the window, a large armoire, a chest of drawers, a cushy reading chair and a gigantic bed — quite enormous for someone Hermione's size, Ron remembered thinking as he had helped to set it up. On the wall above the headboard was a large square painting, a picture of a forest, drawn from the perspective of someone looking up from the forest floor to the treetops above, a swirl of calming greens, blues and pale yellows streaked through by the dark brown of bark and branches.

"That's quite good," Ron said, tipping his head toward the picture.

"It is, isn't it," Hermione said. "My mother did it from photographs she took in the Forest of Dean."

Ron looked at the picture again and shrugged slightly. "It'll be nice to have a chance to connect that place with a more pleasant memory," he said quietly.

"Hmm," she said, giving his hand a squeeze. "That's one reason why I asked Mum if I could have it."

She turned and stepped to the dresser, digging through the top drawer and extracting a large and quite faded Chudley Cannons T-shirt. "You might remember this," she said.

"Oi! I've been looking for that for ages," he bellowed in mock annoyance.

"Well, now you have it back," she said as she tossed it to him. "And somewhere in here," she said, opening the armoire and rummaging around in the back, "I'm pretty sure I still have an old pair of your pyjama trousers. I found a pair of Harry's old socks a while back in my beaded bag, believe it or not, and I keep meaning to return them. Aha!" With that, she straightened up and handed him a pair of flannels that he hadn't seen since the war — and they happened to have been his favorites.

"Ta, Hermione," he said. "I've missed these."

"Wear them in good health," she said with a grin. "Now, if you will follow me." She led him into the bathroom across the hall, pulled out a clean toothbrush from the pack of extras that she kept in the cabinet, and handed him a fresh towel.

"Why don't you clean up first, and then it will be my turn," she said.

For some reason, all he could manage was a nod. As the door to the loo clicked shut, he realized just how nervous he was. Sweet Merlin, he was standing in Hermione's bathroom, getting ready to go to bed … presumably in Hermione's _bedroom_. As he freshened up and brushed his teeth, it occurred to him that she hadn't exactly said that she wanted him to sleep in her bed rather than the sofa but, um, well … it was hard not to reach that conclusion, right?

He reckoned she'd make her intention clear soon enough. In the meantime, he took a few deep breaths to try to calm himself. And then his mind turned to a particular problem. What if his, uh, _excitement_ over this new situation made itself apparent? Would she hex him? Damn. He could think of ways to alleviate that particular problem, but he didn't think he really had time. Oh well. He had to hope that things would somehow work out in the end.

It was with that thought that he finally turned the doorknob and stepped out into the hallway, carrying his folded clothes and hoping he didn't look as shaky as he felt.

What he didn't know was that Hermione was feeling similarly rattled, wondering if he might be jumping to conclusions about her … forwardness … and what he might think of her for wanting him to stay, and to be near, and to most definitely _not_ sleep on the sofa.

As Ron puttered in the bathroom, she had flitted about the flat, tidying, putting out candles, checking Crookshanks' water bowl and otherwise trying to occupy herself so she might not be able to focus 100 percent on how jittery she was. She kept reminding herself that this was Ron Weasley, after all, her best friend for years and years, and that she shouldn't be so jumpy over spending time with him. Then, of course, she remembered that this was also _Ron Weasley_ , the boy she'd had a crush on for nearly as long as she'd known him, and he was brushing his teeth in her bathroom and preparing to sleep in _her bed_.

She was back in the bedroom looking for things to straighten when the door to the loo opened and she was presented with the sight of Ron, dressed as she had seen him approximately a million times before, in a battered Cannons jersey and a pair of flannel trousers. Even so, her heart panged forcefully. He was gorgeous. The last time she'd seen him in that particular T-shirt, it had been a little loose on him, but now, with all his Auror training, he'd filled it in and then some. She noticed, perhaps a second too late, that her mouth had been hanging open slightly, and she hurried to snap it shut.

"Oh," she breathed, coming to her senses. "You can put your clothes here, I think," she said, gesturing toward the armchair in the corner of the bedroom. "I'll just … I'll just change and be out in a jiff, all right?" she added, snatching up her nightgown and her robe from the bed and hurrying past him, closing the bathroom door behind her and leaning against it for a moment as she willed her hands to stop shaking.

Ronald Weasley … Ronald Bilius Weasley … was in her bedroom just then, preparing to spend the night. Good Godric! She couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. Actually, she was tempted to squeal in delight, but she managed to stifle herself. As she looked in the mirror, she wondered how this day could possibly have turned out quite this way. She certainly didn't expect anything like this when she Flooed to work that morning.

She brushed her teeth and washed her face, smoothing on more lotion than usual and examining her reflection. She wasn't displeased with what she saw. She may not be the prettiest girl ever to graduate from Hogwarts, but she felt that the years had been good to her. Her skin was at least clear and glowing, her teeth white and now magically straightened, and the taming charm that she'd put on her hair earlier that night was still holding nicely. She stepped out of her clothes and slipped on her nightgown, pausing to apply a bit more moisturizer as well as a dot of her favorite perfume — though she was careful not to overdo it.

She decided to leave her dressing gown hanging on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Her first instinct had been to wear it — but then she remembered the rip that Aris created and reckoned it was best to simply leave that garment out of the mental picture for now. She'd deal with it later.

This meant, of course, that she had precious little to hide behind aside from her pale pink nightgown, a filmy, satiny thing that showed off her shoulders and extended to just above her knees. It wasn't terribly revealing, mind — the neckline scooped well above her cleavage — but still. She wondered whether he'd like what he saw. Was she too exposed? Then again, maybe this nightgown was too tame. Maybe she should have thought to pick out something a bit more, well, sexy. But then, she didn't really own anything that would fit that description.

She sighed in exasperation. This would have to do.

Giving herself yet another once-over in the mirror, she pinched her cheeks, dabbed on a bit of lip balm, and reached for the door knob, hoping for the best.


	18. Chapter 18

Ron had been pacing around in Hermione's bedroom, careening between elation and panic. He couldn't decide quite how to arrange himself. It seemed weird to stand, and yet a touch audacious to sit on the bed — not to mention how downright creepy it would be to dare to fold back the covers and climb in. After some hesitation, he finally decided to sit on the armchair, nudging aside the pile of clothes he'd placed there and trying to strike a posture that seemed comfortable without also being too familiar. Eventually he had to laugh at how he'd worked himself into such a state. This was Hermione he was waiting on, after all — and yet that was precisely the problem, wasn't it.

Before he had time to ponder his predicament further, the door to the loo opened and out stepped Hermione in what absolutely, positively had to be the dead sexiest thing she'd ever worn in his presence. The dress she'd worn to Bill's wedding had previously been Number One on this particular private list of his, followed by her Hogwarts uniform of all things, but that was then — when he had to share her, more or less, with everyone in the crowd. This night, in this clingy little nightgown of the palest pink he'd ever seen, she was his alone to look upon, and he was gobsmacked. She'd left her hair loose about her shoulders, and he was glad. He half expected that she would plait it, as she did so often at bedtime when they were living in the tent. The thought of the tent reminded him that he used to think she looked sexy even in the rattiest of flannel pyjamas that she wore during the hunt — partly because there was something undeniably intimate about seeing the girl you loved as she prepared to sleep, and even more so as she was actually sleeping. And Ron had spent many a night in the tent staring at Hermione as she dozed. But this nightgown — the way it molded itself to her curves, the way its color brought out the blush in her cheeks — it quite literally took his breath away for a moment.

She padded into the room looking a bit sheepish, like she didn't know what to do with her hands. She started by holding them straight down along her sides, until she realized that she may have looked as if she was somehow trying to accentuate her hips that way, and so she drew them upward, nervously clenching her fingers together before Ron somehow found the power to speak.

Ron rose to his feet. "Come here," he said lowly before remembering that he was a guest in Hermione's room and therefore technically had no business telling her where to come and go at all. And yet, these were the words Hermione seemed to want most in the world to hear, for she stepped toward him before he had an opportunity to kick himself for his impudence, and before he knew it she was standing in front of him, looking up into his face and taking the hand that he'd extended to her.

"You're … Merlin, Hermione, you're beautiful," he said, taking her other hand in his and pulling her closer.

She smiled and laughed softly, because she had just been thinking the same thing about him. The way the golden lashes around his eyes shimmered in the light of the candle on the desk next to him was mesmerizing. She couldn't bring herself to say it, though. Instead, she stood on tiptoe, slipping her hands from his and sliding them up to his chest, enjoying the feel of the well-worn cotton, as she met his lips with hers. He meanwhile circled her waist with his arms and stepped forward slightly so they were now pressed firmly against one another from head to toe. The silky fabric of her nightgown was so inviting, he couldn't resist the urge to run his hands over every inch within reach, which meant that he was soon caressing her waist, her hips and, eventually when he was feeling bold enough, her backside. He loved how warm and curvy she felt, how soft and yet firm. She hummed against his lips and then opened her mouth to him, and he hesitated only a moment before thrusting his tongue in, smiling to himself with no small sense of relief that she responded in kind, gliding her hands up his chest and then to the back of his neck, clinging to him tightly.

After another few minutes, she pulled back a bit and they tilted their foreheads against one another, panting for air. "Perhaps we'd be more comfortable … um … in bed," Hermione whispered.

Ron straightened up and leaned back so he could look at her, his arms were still looped around her waist. "Reckon that's a good idea unless we plan to sleep standing up," he said, smiling down at her.

She giggled and, miraculously, the tension they'd both been feeling melted significantly. The fact that Ron was still able to joke around at a time like this was reassuring somehow. So she took him by the hand, led him to the side of the bed, and folded back the duvet, climbing in and scooting to the opposite side to allow him room to join her.

He was just about to climb in after her when he paused, one foot still on the floor, one knee resting on the bed, and looked at her long and hard.

"Hey," he said. "This is really happening, isn't it. I mean, you're here and I'm here, and we're not in a ruddy tent or sleeping on the floor in Grimmauld Place, right?"

She smiled and nodded, biting her lower lip.

"This is kind of a big deal, isn't it," he continued.

She chuckled and nodded again.

"I don't know why I'm standing here like a berk. I mean, any normal bloke would have dove into this bed with you without a second thought but, I dunno … I just need a second to take it in, if you know what I mean," he said. Then he looked down at the floor and laughed at himself. "I'm babbling, aren't I."

"You are," she said with a grin, "but that doesn't mean what you're saying doesn't make sense. This _is_ a big deal."

He sat atop the duvet and turned to face her.

"I'm not doing this unless we understand one another," he blurted, immediately wondering what the buggering fuck he meant by that and feeling his ears turn red. Oh well, he thought, better keep talking and eventually I'll find my way to the point.

Hermione could only look at him with a furrowed brow. She was pretty sure she knew where she was headed, but she'd learned over years of experience that sometimes it was best to just sit back and let Ron feel his way through whatever was on his mind.

"Don't get me wrong," he stammered, pressing on despite himself. "I've dreamed of something pretty much just like this for years, Hermione. But after all the different ways I've mucked things up between us, I want to be damned sure I do everything right from now on. And that means, well…"

His voice trailed off and he absent-mindedly lifted his hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it as he looked down at the duvet.

Hermione — who had been sitting with her back propped up against the pile of pillows at the headboard and was wiggling her toes beneath the covers in delight — couldn't conceal the grin that had bloomed across her face, but she needn't have worried. Ron's eyes were riveted to the duvet beneath his hand. When he reached up to rub the back of his neck, she decided it was time to help him out.

"Ron," she whispered, and his eyes snapped to hers with an astonished expression that looked almost as if he was startled to find she was still there.

With that, she slid down so that she was fully tucked beneath the covers, lying on her side to face him. He gaped at her, his eyes traveling slowly from her head to her feet and back again.

"It sounds like you think we should take our time, yes?" she added, looking up at him from the pillow.

Ron could only nod in reply.

"After all these years and all these mixups, all these rows and all these heartaches, I do believe that you and I are finally, _finally_ on the same page, then," she continued with a smile. "Now come to bed."

Those words did something to Ron's heart. She'd said "come to bed" in the most natural, most innocent way possible. And yet, it was an invitation, wasn't it. She hadn't said, "go to bed." She'd said "come to bed." And he was amazed at the surge of warmth that spread through him at the sound of it.

And so, he flipped back the duvet and climbed in, covering himself up and then lying on his side to face her. They remained that way for quite some time, a few inches apart, simply staring at one another, each wearing an irrepressible grin.

After a few minutes, Ron chuckled. "Look at us," he said.

"I know," she replied as she folded her hands under her chin. "I can hardly believe it."

"Same here," he said. "Think we'll get any sleep tonight?"

Hermione laughed and shook her head. "That's all right," she said, "I'm not really tired."

"Oh, really?" he answered, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Shut it," she huffed teasingly. But then, ever so slowly, she nudged her foot a little closer to his leg — she had been reaching for his toes but then realized that they were a good six or seven inches farther down the bed than hers were — and so she wound up running her toes gently against his shin, biting her lower lip as she did so and watching his face for a reaction.

She got what she was looking for, because he furrowed his brow, squinted at her and said in a scolding tone, "Miss Granger, are you attempting to play footsie with me?"

She giggled and murmured, "Yes, Mr. Weasley, I do believe I am."

"Well then," he said, and reached out, pulling her by the waist until she was snug against him, "perhaps this angle will suit you better."

She smiled and clutched the front of his shirt, tilting her face upward in invitation. He took her up on her silent offer, kissing her soundly as he snaked his other arm around her shoulders. Hermione, for her part, thought she might have just died and gone to heaven because, here she was, completely and utterly surrounded by Ronald Weasley. _Ronald Weasley,_ whose broad shoulders and lithe arms created a sort of cocoon from which she never wanted to escape. Ronald Weasley, who was kissing her like no one had ever kissed her before.

Ron, meanwhile, was trying desperately not to be swept away by the tide of ardor that was surging through him. After all, this moment was very much a dream come true, and yet — one more reason to hate Aris Thayer, he noted bitterly — he had to be supremely careful not to do anything that might alarm Hermione, that might signal that he didn't respect her limits. But gods, he was so turned on by the very thought of where they were and what they were doing, it was getting harder to think straight. It was this realization that forced him to pull his lips away from hers after a few minutes, to settle for kissing her nose, her cheeks, her forehead, as he tried to regain some semblance of control over himself.

"I love you so much, Hermione, so fucking much — you know that, yes?" he whispered as he sprinkled kisses across her face.

"I love you, too, Ronald, always," she answered.

He pulled back a bit and looked at her. His breathing was labored and he noticed that his heart was beating a bit fast — but he was felt like he could leap over a mountain, he was so happy.

"So," he said, a crooked grin coming to his lips, "does this mean you're my girlfriend, then?"

There was a pause and then Hermione burst out laughing. "Well, I certainly hope so, Ronald," she said between chuckles. "I wouldn't invite you to sleep with me if I weren't."

"All right, good," he said. "I just wanted to clear that up."

"And I suppose that means you're my boyfriend then," she replied, raising her hand to stroke his cheek.

He leaned into her hand and nodded, biting his lower lip. "I've always wanted to be your boyfriend, but now that I am, I can't help wondering what it means," he said.

She smiled and shook her head. "You do run deep, don't you. Who wonders about such things but you."

"I know, I'm mental, I guess," he said. "But like I said before, I never want to screw things up between us ever again, so I reckon I just feel like thinking everything through."

Hermione's heart flipped yet again. He was beyond adorable — and, of course, he had no idea. She didn't think she'd ever get over it.

"All right, then," she said, "what does it mean that you're my boyfriend?"

He paused to consider it, taking the hand that had been stroking his cheek in his and kissing each fingertip before answering. "I think it means that it really is my responsibility to take care of you now. I mean, I always tried before, but I reckon it'll be a bit easier now that I've officially got the job."

This wasn't the answer Hermione was expecting, and the realization of what he'd said and what it meant brought tears to her eyes.

"Hey," he said, wiping the tears that had fallen down her cheek, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"You're wonderful, you know that?" she said with a shaky voice, cutting him off.

All he could do was smile back at her. They stayed like that, loosely curled up in one another's arms for a few minutes as Hermione gathered herself back together. When she felt she could speak again without sounding too teary, she continued. "And what does it mean that I'm your girlfriend?" she asked quietly.

He laughed. "Oh, that's simple," he said. "You let me."

"Let you what?"

"Take care of you."

"That's it?"

He thought about it, picking up a lock of hair from her shoulder and twirling it gently in his fingers. "Yeah, I reckon that's it."

"I'd have thought there'd be something in there about me taking care of you or somesuch," she said with a grin.

"Nah," he replied. "Believe me, love, the biggest favor you could ever do for me is to let me be your man. Let me protect you, let me provide for you, let me make sure you don't work yourself silly, that sort of thing. I don't think that's going to be as easy for you as you think."

She chuckled. "I'll count on you to remind me from time to time, then," she said.

He nodded and then yawned. She reached up and rustled his hair. "Tired, eh?"

"Well, it has been an eventful day," he said.

"It has indeed."

With that, they settled a little deeper into the pillows and curled themselves tighter against one another.

"Good night, love," said Ron.

"Sweet dreams," said Hermione.

And they were sweet, his dreams. As were hers.


	19. Chapter 19

Awakening was usually a gradual affair for Ron — except, that is, when he was on-duty. He had learned over months of rigorous training at St. Agnes to ignore his inner slow-motion riser and snap into action when necessary. And yet, when he was off-duty, old habits prevailed. On any such morning, as wakefulness dawned on him, he might wiggle his toes, bury his head a little deeper in his pillow, or pull his blanket tighter across his shoulders and attempt to steal a few extra winks.

On this particular morning, it took Ron a good, solid minute to register where he was. At first, he reckoned he was tucked in his bed at Grimmauld Place, clutching a pillow and wishing it was Hermione, as he did pretty much every night. Then, as his consciousness slowly fined-tuned itself, he perceived that the soft form he was clasping so tightly to his chest was no pillow — it was Hermione in the flesh. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the early-morning light filtering through the curtains, and saw that Hermione was indeed curled up next to him, her back to his front. Somehow during the night, he had wrapped both his arms around her firmly, one serving as a makeshift pillow supporting her cheek, the other strapped tightly around her waist. He had also clasped his leg across her hip for good measure. It was as if his unconscious mind thought that if he didn't hold her down to the mattress quite so firmly during the night, she might float away from him. And yet, she didn't seem to mind her imprisonment. In fact, from his vantage point, with his head nestled above hers on the pillow, he could make out the curve of her cheek, and he could have sworn she was smiling in her sleep.

He watched her for signs that she was waking, but none came. He kissed the top of her head and tightened his grip on her, a gesture that was met with an unconscious hum as she shimmied her backside a little deeper into the shelter he had created for her.

Ron smiled and savored the feeling of Hermione allowing him to hold her so possessively. Burying his face in her hair, he took in the smell of her vanilla-ish shampoo and relived moments from the previous evening, wondering how his luck could have turned so completely in less than 24 hours. She loved him. He could hardly believe it. Now that he knew what it was to hear her say those words, he prayed he'd never lose her love. Now that he knew what it was to sleep with her in his arms, he prayed that the day would soon come when they would never sleep apart again.

With these thoughts, he felt himself sliding back toward slumber — that is, until Hermione stirred.

"Mmmmmmm," she purred as she stretched then rolled sideways in his arms to face him, her eyes half-lidded, her lips curled into a sleepy smile. "Good morning, darling," she murmured, and he felt his heart pang at the endearment.

"Good morning, love," he answered, little knowing that his use of that word made her own heart skip as well.

"How did you sleep?"

"Like a top. You?"

"I can honestly say I haven't slept that well since before the war," she answered, reaching for the wand on her nightstand and doing a quick freshening charm on her mouth and then Ron's before planting a peck on his lips. Then she stretched her legs and arms and settled her hands gently on his chest.

"Now that you mention it, I can't think when I've ever slept better," he said, tightening his grip on her waist. "A bloke could get used to it."

She smiled shyly and shifted her gaze down to his shoulder, willing herself not to blush but having very little success. Ron, meanwhile, pondered the meaning of his words and, as his ears heated up, he felt tempted to walk that blurted statement back. But then, he caught himself. Sure, he'd just implied that he'd like to sleep in just this way every night … for as long as they both shall live, as the old vow goes … but why not? So he let his remark hang there in mid-air over their heads, and he watched with no small amount of pleasure as Hermione flicked her eyes upwards toward his face now and then, a mildly embarrassed grin gracing her lips.

As it was a Saturday and neither had anything particularly pressing to do, they spent another half an hour or so in bed quite like that, rather shyly kissing one another and sometimes laughing nervously over their situation, so unfamiliar and new in the warm light of morning.

They would have remained tucked away from the world for much longer, but Ron's prodigious appetite soon had to be reckoned with, and their whispered conversation was interrupted by a mighty rumble of Ron's stomach.

Over breakfast in Hermione's kitchen, they resolved to spend the day together. Ron suggested Apparating to the seashore for the day, since it was rather fine out and he craved wide-open spaces and country air after having spent so much time in the city lately. Hermione, for her part, couldn't have cared less where they went or what they did, as long as she could be near him. She was happy to pack a rucksack with a few apples, a package of biscuits, some chocolate bars, a quilt and bottled water, to tug on some wellies and a thick cardigan, then place her hand in his and follow wherever he might lead.

First he Apparated them to Grimmauld Place, reckoning he ought to change into some clean clothes. Harry and Ginny were nowhere to be found, and then Ron remembered that the Harpies had a match in Holyhead that afternoon, so Harry was most likely there. Hermione killed time by poking around Ron's room while he hopped in the shower and changed in the loo. She was surprised to see that he had done next to nothing to make this place his home just yet despite having lived there since the war — clothes were scattered here and there, a Cannons poster clung to the wall above the bed, and his broom was propped in the corner next to Pigwidgeon's cage, which always remained open — and, indeed, Pigwidgeon appeared to be out and about. Ron's Order of Merlin First Class medal hung from the doorknob, probably the spot, Hermione realized with a smile, where he had placed it as soon as he got home from the ceremony — and he probably hadn't given it a moment's thought since. In short, the room was utterly Ron, and she rather liked being in it.

Once he was dressed, Ron scribbled a quick note to Harry explaining that he and Hermione would be out for the day and that they'd most likely catch up with him at the Burrow for Sunday dinner. And, with that, he slung the rucksack that Hermione had packed onto his back, reached out his hand to her one more time, and she happily placed her hand in his. "Lead on, Ronald," she said jauntily, and he Apparated them away from London — as far as he could think to go, because he realized he was deeply, profoundly happy in that moment, and at such a time, the country boy in him demanded open air and fresh breezes. He Apparated them to Lesser Portree, a little wizarding village on the Isle of Skye off the coast of Scotland, always one of his favorite getaways when he was a child. Bill and Charlie would often take him here to hike in the hills and then they'd tuck themselves away in the pub for hours, warming up and listening to locals tell ancient tales of the exploits of Merlin. It was in this pub, the Bayble Arms, where Ron first tasted butterbeer, in fact, and so the Isle of Skye was the first place he wanted to go on this, the first day of what he hoped to be the rest of his life. He just couldn't imagine wanting to be anywhere else on such a day.

Ron and Hermione hiked the hills that tumbled down from Camastianavaig to Tianavaig Bay. As they walked, it occurred to Hermione that this was the first time they'd been out in the country together since the war, and what a difference it made. She was able to take her time, to savor the spectacular views, to enjoy the feel of her hand in his. He, meanwhile, adjusted his pace to suit the difference in the length of their legs. When they were on the Horcrux hunt, she often found herself nearly running to keep up with him, his stride was so much longer than hers. But now, with no danger at their back, he took his time … lallygagged, even … pausing to throw an arm around her shoulder if the going was easy, stopping to lift her by the elbow if boulders or steep crevices hindered her progress.

She had forgotten how much wide-open spaces suited him, the sun and wind playing on his orange locks, the color in his cheeks rising with the exertion of the hike, the sea in the distance an exact match for the color of his eyes. She slipped on a patch of mossy rock and he turned and scooped her back up to her feet, and she couldn't help herself — she just had to kiss him in that moment — and she found that it was the easiest thing in the world to do now, to simply kiss him when the feeling moved her, and to her continued surprise, he would simply and happily kiss her back.

Ron, meanwhile, enjoyed knowing that he was showing her a place she'd never seen before, and it made his heart thump that she was so clearly loving it. She paused now and then to pluck a frond of heather and smell it, or to stand and take in the vista beneath them, green hills sloping downward to rocky cliffs encircling a sandy and shallow bay. She had plaited her hair to keep it tame in the relentless seaside winds, and yet several locks fell loose about her cheeks and he found himself occasionally wanting to reach out and tuck them behind her ears. It wasn't until he'd felt this impulse three or four times before he remembered that he could do such a thing now — a gesture that intimate wouldn't set off alarm bells. And so, as they half-slipped, half-climbed down a particularly grassy hillside and into a little cove that sheltered them from the wind, he did so, tenderly caressing a curl that was dangling next to her eyes and wrapping it around his finger for a moment before looping it around her ear. And when he shifted his attention away from that lock of hair to take in her face, he was almost startled to see that she was looking up at him with an irresistible smile, her upper teeth buried in her lower lip. He took her face in his hands then and kissed her soundly, and she responded by placing her hands on his wrists and pulling herself even closer to him.

"Let's sit here and rest for a while, shall we?" she whispered against his lips. He nodded and stepped back to take off the rucksack she'd packed earlier, pulling out the quilt and laying it at her feet. He stretched out and kicked off his hiking boots so they wouldn't muck up the blanket, and she did the same with her wellies, though it took her a bit longer to pull them off, by which time he had already taken off his jumper and folded it into a pillow. As he made himself comfortable, stretching his legs, wiggling his toes and looping his hands behind his head, she reached into the rucksack and pulled out an apple. Taking a big bite, she then laid down on her side and tucked herself against him, content to rest her head on his shoulder and watch the puffy white clouds that dotted the sky overhead roll past the curve of his cheek and the slope of his nose. He wrapped an arm around her and they rested there like that, lost in their own thoughts, absent-mindedly passing the apple back and forth between them until Ron tossed the core as far as he could, arguing that it would be found by a grateful seagull, and soon. He closed his eyes. He wasn't aware that he had dozed off until he heard the sound of her voice at just above a whisper.

"Thank you for bringing me here," she said after a while.

He peered down at her from his makeshift pillow then, feeling an unexpected burst of energy, he propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her as he tucked his jumper beneath her head. Gods, she was pretty. She always was to him, but especially now. Something about the clear air and sunshine, he thought, made her skin glow even more than usual, and her hair looked so silky and dark against the navy blue of the jumper bunched beneath her head. He reckoned he should say something, but no words seemed adequate to convey just how happy he was, so he gave in to the next-best idea, which was to cover her lips with his and pull her close, swinging a leg across hers.

She tasted of apples. And, he thought, the feel of her beneath him was intoxicating. He knew it was wrong — very, very wrong — to think of Lavender at a time like this, but she came to his mind unbidden. He remembered being in very much this position with her more than once, but he couldn't recall ever feeling this mesmerized by the experience. It was just, well, a position in which to snog. There was nothing particularly special about it when it came to Lavender. But with Hermione, everything was larded with meaning, there was a subtext to every movement, and this one, in his mind, was all about possession and protection — that she was his, that though she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, she was allowing him to dominate her in a way, or at the very least to take the lead, and his mind raced at the idea.

Hermione, meanwhile, adored the sensation of being surrounded by Ron yet again, and it reminded her forcefully of how pleasant it was to awaken that morning wrapped up in him, a situation that made her feel small somehow and remarkably safe. She didn't expect to feel this bold all of a sudden, but she did and decided to act on it before she could second-guess herself: She slipped her hand from its resting place on his chest and reached down to unbutton her blouse, slowly … one button at a time … until she felt the cool sea air against her skin. She had chosen that morning to forego a bra in favor of a camisole, and the silky fabric of it was now all that stood between her and the breeze that caressed them both. Ron, for his part, had no idea that Hermione had done anything so daring, captivated as he was by the feel of her lips and the curve of her waist, which he was caressing with his free hand. So he pulled back in mild surprise when Hermione reached around, removed that hand from her waist, and lifted it to her chest.

"Mione," he murmured against her lips as he cupped her breast in his hand, her fingers still wrapped around his wrist. He felt an instant jolt to his cock and he knew he ought to shimmy his hips away from her slightly so she wouldn't feel his obvious excitement, but before he could act on this thought she had slid her hand from his wrist and was wrapping it around his shoulder, pulling herself even closer to him and gently pressing her hips against his.

At that, most thoughts of restraint promptly exited Ron's brain. He pressed the pad of his thumb against her nipple and thrilled to feel the tender flesh grow hard at his touch. He brushed his thumb and then his forefinger against her there, and she moaned, a sound that drove him half wild with desire. "Oh, Mione," he said again, and she answered by burying her tongue in his mouth and shimmying so that she was tucked even more firmly beneath him.

Ron cursed himself for thinking of Lavender yet again, but comparisons forced themselves upon him, and he smiled to himself knowing that, though Lavender certainly was more well-endowed than Hermione, he wouldn't trade Lavender's breasts for Hermione's for all the tea in China. Everything about Hermione represented perfection to him, including her relatively petite breasts, which fit perfectly in his hand. Feeling them through a silky layer of fabric was one thing, but he longed to see, to taste. He asked himself if she would object and decided, based on the fucktastic sounds she was making, that he could try to get even closer to her and she most likely wouldn't object. And so, slowly and carefully, he slipped his fingers beneath the strap of her camisole and looped his fingers beneath it, pulling it and her blouse and cardigan away from her shoulder until, just like that, her breast was exposed to the daylight, her nipple erect and cinnamon brown. He caressed it yet again. "You're so beautiful, Hermione," he whispered. "So beautiful."

Hermione, for her part, had expected to feel somewhat embarrassed at a moment like this, because she was painfully aware of what she considered to be her physical shortcomings — and she was also unaccustomed to doing anything quite so forward as to unbutton her shirt and place a boy's hand on her chest. But when she pictured doing this sort of thing with Ron — and she _had,_ for years — she hadn't considered the effect that he himself would have on her. And as she gazed up into his face, she couldn't help but smile at his gobsmacked reaction, the glow of pure love that beamed out at her from his eyes. He was irresistible, and his appreciative smile was all it took to give her the courage she lacked. She couldn't help but feel beautiful when he looked at her that way.

"I love you so much, Ron," she said, stroking his cheek.

"I love you, too, Hermione — so much," he answered. "So fucking much. I'll never stop. I promise."

"Please promise," she said. "I'd be lost if you ever stopped loving me."

"Then you'll never be lost again," he said, and lowered his lips to her breast, kissing her nipple gently as she buried her fingers in his hair and arched her back. He sucked tentatively at first, and then more forcefully, enjoying the sound of her whispering his name. They were both a bit startled, however, by the sound of a dog's bark in the distance, and they tore their eyes away from each other to see that two children were running down the beach below with a very large St. Bernard in tow. They weren't terribly close — something about the direction of the wind had carried the dog's yelps and made him sound closer than he truly was. But their presence reminded Ron and Hermione that, remote as Tianavaig Bay was, they couldn't count on complete privacy, and so Ron reluctantly covered Hermione back up and they both sat up sheepishly, laughing nervously.

"Well, maybe we should Apparate back to the village and have a bite at the pub anyway," Ron said. "Would that be all right?"

Hermione nodded, buttoning up her blouse and then her cardigan. She pulled on her wellies and was about to stand when Ron grabbed her by the wrist. "Hey," he said. "Thank you."

She looked at him questioningly, one eyebrow raised.

"Thank you for showing yourself to me," he continued. "You're beautiful. I know you don't always think so, but you are, you know."

She smiled and blinked a few times. Ron had a way of saying things that made her tearful when she least expected it. "I love you," she said, leaning forward and planting a quick peck on his lips.

With that, he jammed his feet back into his hiking boots, stood and reached out to her, pulling her up to her feet in one swift movement. Then he stuffed the quilt back into the rucksack and closed it up — but not before fishing out the chocolate bars. "To tide us over until we get to the pub," he explained, and they happily climbed up the hillside again toward Portree.


	20. Chapter 20

That evening, Ron and Hermione Flooed back to Hermione's flat, their bellies full of the bacon sandwiches, chicken and leek pie and butterbeer that they'd snacked on for several hours while tucked away inside the pub at Lesser Portree.

They shouldn't have been surprised that they were recognized there, but they were, and as soon as the proprietor realized he had two bona fide war heroes in his establishment, it was impossible for Ron to pay for anything — every drink, every bit of food was on the house. The privacy they had enjoyed on the hillside by the bay was at an end, but they enjoyed themselves nevertheless. Ron was challenged by an elderly wizard to a game of chess, and the two of them played intensely for above an hour — Ron couldn't remember the last time anyone had come so close to beating him — and Hermione curled up on the bench seat next to Ron, her cheek on his shoulder, her mind distracted by an old atlas of wizarding Britain, which the barkeep had handed over to her when she spied it on the shelves behind the bar.

Many hours — and games of darts and old war stories and shots of Ogden's — later, the pub patrons allowed Hermione and Ron to head back to London, but only after extracting repeated promises that they would come again and bring along Harry Potter next time. They would have Apparated the distance to Hermione's place, but they were both rather tipsy and decided Flooing would be safer.

They tumbled out of the fireplace and into Hermione's lounge, dusting themselves off and laughing at the way the day had gone.

"Well," Hermione said, tossing her wellies by the front door and then using her wand to erase a patch of mud that she'd smudged on the floor, "this day was just what the doctor ordered. I can't remember having a more relaxing time Ronald, truly."

Ron, for his part, stood by the hearth and kicked at a clump of mud that was stuck to his boot. Now that they were back in London, he was reminded of where they were and what they were about, and suddenly he wondered whether he ought to be bidding Hermione good night rather than so presumptuously standing in her lounge expecting … well, he didn't know what.

She knew him well enough by now to know what was going through his head. And so, she stepped toward him and looked up into his face. "Take off those muddy boots, Mr. Weasley, and make yourself comfortable," she said.

Hermione may have been just as anxious as Ron was about moving forward with their relationship, but she was also determined that she would never again let her fragile ego, her insecurities or her bull-headedness ever be a reason to hurt Ron ever again. As they'd hiked and talked that day, sometimes comparing notes on the earliest stages of their friendship, sometimes just strolling silently and examining their own thoughts, she had spent considerable brainpower reliving the best and the worst moments of her time with Ron — and she came away more aware than ever that she bore a good portion of the blame for their frequent misunderstandings. She had sent many a mixed signal, and her fear of rejection, her lack of confidence in her own attractiveness, had led her to do many foolish things, to close out any possibility of intimacy, determined as she was to shield herself from pain and disappointment. She saw, with the benefit of hindsight, that in protecting herself, she had sometimes only succeeded in bruising his feelings, and that simply would not do — not anymore. She cared about Ron above all others. She resolved that from here on, she would treat him accordingly. That resolution, she decided, began this night.

As Ron kicked off his boots with a faint smile on his lips, Hermione stepped toward him and took his hands in hers. There were a million things she wanted to say to him, but nothing seemed better than kissing him, and so that's what she did. She pulled his hands around her back, leaving them to rest there as she raised her arms and looped them around his neck, kissing him passionately. He answered in kind, pulling her close and bending forward so that she was nearly falling backward in his arms as he kissed her enthusiastically.

"I want you to stay tonight, Ron," she whispered after pulling back slightly.

He pressed his forehead to hers. "Are you sure, Hermione? I don't want you to think … you know … that I … I mean, if you want to take it slow, that's OK with me, love."

He was so adorable, she wanted to hold him tight and never let go. "Ron, I've been falling in love with you since I was 11 years old," she said, nuzzling her nose against his. "That's slow enough, I think."

He chuckled and nuzzled her back.

"Honestly," she continued, closing her eyes in an attempt to gather her courage. "I may not be ready to, you know … to go all the way … but … oh, Ron, I'm so tired of second-guessing myself, I'm so tired of us missing one another's meanings. So I want to be crystal-clear," she said, opening her eyes and looking up at him sincerely. "We've wasted so much time. Apparently we've both wanted the same thing for years but we were both too blind to see it. And now that it's all out in the open, I just … well, I never thought I'd be so bold as to say this, but it must be said: I never want to be apart from you ever again, Ronald. If we can just be together, everything else will sort itself out, don't you think?"

Ron smiled, his heart turning upside-down for the hundredth time in the past 24 hours over what she had to say and how she said it. He pulled her even closer to him, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist and burying his face in her hair as she pressed her cheek to his chest. "I think everything will more than work out if we can just promise one another this from now on, OK?" he said.

"What's that?"

Ron pursed his lips and thought hard about what he wanted to say. This was important. He was just as weary of misunderstandings as she was. He blew a little puff of air from his lips and pressed on.

"Well, this isn't going to be easy for either one of us because apparently we're both a couple of insecure nutters," Ron said, "but maybe we need to agree to, I dunno … to believe one another when we say that we love each other, know what I mean? Maybe we should promise to stop thinking up reasons why it might not be true, or reasons why we might not deserve it, and just, I dunno, just trust that it's real. I mean, I love you and I plan to spend the rest of my life proving to you how much, but you don't really need to question it anymore — and I guess neither do I, right?"

Hermione, for her part, felt this little speech almost as clearly as she heard it, standing as she was with her ear pressed against his chest and her arms wrapped tight around his middle. And once again, she felt tears rise to her eyes. She was so overcome, she couldn't speak for a moment, and Ron, oblivious, bumbled forward.

"Don't get me wrong — I'll never stop thinking I'm the luckiest bloke alive that you want to do much more than give me the time of day," he said, "but at some point, I have to believe that what you're telling me is true — that you, uh, you know ... love me. If I don't believe it, then I risk hurting you again and again, and I don't want to do that anymore."

Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly, clenching him tighter to her in the process. After another moment, she found the nerve to lift her face from his chest and to look up at him, and she was surprised to see that he, like her, had tears welling in his eyes.

"So," she said quietly, her voice still choked with emotion, "does this mean you're going to stay here with me or not?" She cleared her throat and continued more firmly, "because I rather think you belong here with me from now on, don't you?"

He let out a brief noise that was something between a laugh and a sob. "Absolutely," he croaked, raising a hand to her cheek. "'Sides, Grimmauld Place creeps me out."

With that, they both burst out laughing, Hermione giggling so hard that her knees nearly buckled beneath her. Ron, still laughing, swung his arms down under her, hoisted her into his arms, and over her whoop of surprise, he hauled her into the bedroom and tossed her on the bed, diving in after her and covering her face with kisses as she continued to laugh so hard that tears were rolling down her cheeks.


	21. Chapter 21

"I trust you implicitly, Ron — absolutely and positively," Hermione said, stroking his cheek before continuing in a firmer tone. "You are not — I repeat, are _not_ — Aris Thayer, darling, and I am very clear on that. You needn't worry quite so much."

But it was in Ron's nature to worry, at least when it came to Hermione, and despite the fact that they were now lying in her bed, and they had both taken off several layers of clothes to the point where they were down to their skivvies, and the feel of her skin against his was setting the nerve endings over every millimeter of his body on fire, he couldn't help but hold himself back, concerned that any false move on his part might remind her of the violation that Aris Thayer engineered just the previous night. He didn't want to risk upsetting her no matter how much his mind, his heart and his cock pleaded for relief. He hadn't brought up Thayer — she had — but he reckoned she was brilliant enough to have sussed out that if he was in her bed and not attempting to touch and kiss every square inch of her within reach, something was on his mind, and it was most likely Thayer. And, of course, she figured it out before he had a chance to really sort out his feelings on the matter.

"Mione, believe me, I'm thrilled to hear that what Thayer tried isn't upsetting you so much that you can't get past it," he said, pulling back and lying on his side to face her. "It's just that, you know, talking is one thing. Doing is another. I would hate to, uh, move forward and then have you find that, in the heat of the moment, you felt like maybe you were in over your head, if you know what I mean. I want you to feel safe. I want that more than anything, love."

Hermione smiled and reached for his hand. "That's just it, Ronald," she murmured, "I do feel safe with you. Always. Even at times when we weren't really getting along, I've always trusted you with my life. I never once felt unsafe with you." She grinned guiltily. "I may have wanted to hex you sometimes, but I knew you'd never reciprocate, no matter how cross you might get with me."

"Ain't it the truth," Ron said through a laugh. "I still have nightmares about those canaries."

She grimaced in mock annoyance. "You deserved those, you know." Then she snuggled a bit closer to him and studied his face, her eyes darting over every feature. She loved that she was so free to look at him now, and he was so beautiful in the candlelight of her bedroom, the gold and copper tints of his hair sparkling, his eyes so bright. "The point is," she continued, sobering up a little, "Aris tried to take something that didn't belong to him. But you? I want to give you what Aris could never have, and there's just an enormous, gigantic world of difference. Does that make any sense?"

All Ron could do was nod and hope she was really as confident as she was trying to sound. He privately resolved that he would force himself to move as slowly and cautiously as possible, but he also decided to try to believe in her words.

"You're the only one I ever want to be with in this way," she added, reaching out to stroke the back of his hand, which was lying on the bed between them. "You're the only one I have ever wanted or ever will want. No one as feeble as Aris Thayer could ever change that."

Her words, coupled with the gentle motion of her fingers caressing his skin, slowly but surely sank in, and he felt himself warming from the inside-out. She loved him. Despite all the stupid rows about Scabbers and quidditch and homework and Krum and the Slug Club and rules and manners, despite the falling out during the Horcrux hunt, despite the hurt feelings and opportunities missed, she loved him. He had, through words expressed and deeds performed so long ago that he could barely remember them, somehow laid the foundation for the kind of trust that was durable enough to outlast the war and withstand the pangs of disappointed love. Could it have been as simple as his impulse to curse Malfoy all those years ago, when he wound up coughing up slugs for his trouble? He didn't know and doubted he ever would, though a shiver ran through him at the thought that a different decision that day might have led to a very different outcome. Not for the first time, he silently thanked his inner Second Year for having had such good instincts.

If he had been able to form words at that moment, he might have asked Hermione about that very thing, the slug-belching incident. The answer would have eased his mind, because she would have told him that it wasn't just one action, one decision, that stacked the deck in his favor so long ago. It was the entirety of him, everything he was, that caused her to trust him implicitly. His loyalty, his doggedness, his humility, his innate intelligence, even his tenderness, well-obscured as it sometimes was by his stubbornness and pride — all these elements of his personality made Ron who he was, and Hermione saw that man more clearly than he did himself.

"Mione," Ron whispered, "you're so precious to me." He was a little choked up and realized that his voice sounded raspy, but he didn't care. "I'll wait forever for you. As long as it takes, I don't care. Just as long as I can be near you, love, as long as I know you're mine. Nothing else matters."

These words — and his expression as he said them, so clear-eyed, so innocent — quite literally warmed Hermione's heart. She even laughed to herself as the sensation hit her, realizing for the first time in her life that this old saying is related to an actual, physical sensation, because she felt it, actually felt it: a surge of mild heat that emanated from her chest and rolled over her entire body. She knew she had many barriers of modesty and self-doubt still to conquer, but how could she fail to break through them when her reward was to get even closer to Ronald Weasley? She felt such a jolt of energy at the idea that suddenly she was brave enough to sit up in bed, looking down at him with a smile, and slowly pull the silky camisole that she'd been wearing up and over her head, her knickers then the only item of clothing still on her body. She shivered slightly, not at the temperature but at the feeling of being so exposed to him, and yet, when she finally lifted her eyes from the bed to his eyes as he laid next to her there, she realized she had nothing to fear. He was looking at her with such adoration, a slightly open-mouthed grin on his face, that she felt she might know something of what it was like to be part-Veela.

Ron, for his part, was quite certain he'd never seen anything in his entire life as beautiful as Hermione in that moment. He knew he was openly staring at her — gaping, really — and he was dimly aware that it wasn't entirely polite to do so, but it couldn't be helped. His eyes roved over her hungrily. After years of trying desperately to picture what she might look like in just such a state, here she was in the flesh, and he realized that his imagination hadn't done the real thing justice. She was so petite and delicate, so demure and yet there was that slightly mischievous glint in her eye, and the little smile that came over her lips finally awoke him from his thoughts and inspired him to reach out and touch — first, the back of her hand, then her forearm, and then, thrillingly and deliciously, her breast, and as he ran the pads of his fingers over her nipple and then cupped her flesh in his palm, his brow crinkled in wonderment, and he found himself looking up into her face for a moment as if to say, Is this all right?

Her silent nod was all the encouragement he needed. He sat up slowly so their eyes were level with one another and leaned in to kiss her lightly on the lips. "I know I keep on saying it, but it's true," he whispered against her lips. "I love you. I just love you so much."

She snickered and kissed him back lightly. "You don't think I'm tired of hearing it, do you?"

He shrugged. "I just wish there were other ways of saying it," he replied.

"Well, you're in luck," she said, looping her arms around his neck. "There are." She laid back then, pulling him down with her until she was spread out on the mattress beneath him, and he leaned over her, propped up on one elbow, and lowered his lips first to her neck, then downward toward her breast, which he was still caressing gently.

"Mione," he whispered as she threaded her fingers into his hair and arched her back to lift her breasts closer to his mouth. "Merlin bless me, you're so sweet. So sweet."

She hummed appreciatively as he returned his lips to her skin, sucking at her nipple gently at first, but then deeper. He seemed to know how to vary the pace and intensity of his kisses just so, and it occurred to her with a pang that it was probably because he'd done this before with Lavender — though she quickly chased that notion away. She didn't want to think of Lavender, not right now. Ron was with _her_ now, she reminded herself, and that's the way things would remain as long as she had something to say about it. So instead of fretting further, she gave in to the feelings overtaking her as Ron continued to kiss her neck, her chin, her shoulders and her chest with tender, almost reverent kisses. There was nothing frenzied about his movements. In fact, he was moving with caution, with care, so gently, it was as if his movements were repeating his earlier words: You're so precious to me.

She couldn't stop whispering his name, breathing "yes" and "I love you," and the sound of it all thrilled Ron to the core. She loved him. Gods, he still couldn't believe his good fortune — and the fact that she was sharing herself with him so openly — it all made his heart beat harder in his chest.

His hands, meanwhile, roved from her breast down to her bum and back again, until he looped his arm around the small of her back and pulled her waist closer to him, swinging his leg over her hip. She was then pinned rather tightly to him and loving the sensation. Her hands were still playing about his hair, his face and his neck, but, after a few minutes, he reached up and took one of them, kissed her fingertips, and then gently lowered it to his boxers. He laid her hand on his cock and then covered the back of her hand with his, and whispered in her ear, "Do you feel what you do to me, love?" He breathed sharply through his teeth, then added, "You're capable of very powerful magic, Hermione. You and only you."

She could hardly believe what she was feeling, actually. She had perceived his hardness against her leg and against her middle at various times over the past day as they laid in one another's arms, but she had willed herself not to call attention to the fact that she'd felt it — it was just too _much_ somehow, something that caused her face to heat up in a furious blush. And yet, at this moment, the way he had so carefully brought her fingers into contact with his manhood, the way he had told her that his excitement was magic that she had done, made her feel terribly powerful all of a sudden. She planted her lips on his and opened her mouth to him. She sucked first on his lip, then on his tongue, actions that caused him to grip her hand tighter to his cock, though he was too distracted to know he was doing it. All he knew was that the girl of his dreams was touching him where he'd always fantasized she might someday, and that she was kissing him as if her life depended on it, and his head was in the clouds. This, he thought, is joy. This is what it is.

Then she moved her hand — Ron thought perhaps she didn't want to be touching him there anymore, so he promptly unclasped his hand from hers. He was pleasantly surprised, however, when instead of pulling away, she reached inside the waistband of his boxers and touched him, skin-on-skin, and it took every bit of control he could muster to keep from coming on the spot. Her fingers were so warm, so soft.

"Oh gods, Mione," he mumbled in her ear as she touched the tip of his cock uncertainly, then dragged a finger down the underside before wrapping her hand around his shaft and gripping him gently. "Yes, love … oh, Merlin … oh, please." She had no idea that her touch could turn his skeleton to jelly, but it did, and soon he had flopped onto his back, dumbstruck as Hermione continued to stroke him up and then down.

"I don't really know what I'm doing," she said before biting her lip and giving him a sweet smile. He opened his eyes and grinned at her. "You're … you don't have to do anything, you know. Just the feel of your skin … gods," he said, pressing his eyes shut tightly and forcing his fingers into his hair as he inhaled sharply again.

"But, I want to," she whispered. "I want to … to make you feel good." She removed her hand from his erection for just a moment, and he opened his eyes to see that she had reached for the waistband of his pants and was now tugging them down.

Sweet mother of Merlin — this was a sight Ron never thought he'd live to see: Hermione Granger, in nothing but a pair of petite pink knickers, kneeling demurely next to him in bed as she pulled off his boxers and turned her attention to his cock, her skin glowing in the warm candlelight, her hair falling loosely about her shoulders and just grazing the tops of her bare breasts.

"You're so goddamned beautiful, Hermione," he said. "You don't have to do a thing but let me look at you. I could look at you just like that for hours."

She smiled and leaned on one hand, looking him over. "I could say the same for you, Ron, honestly." And she meant it. He was quite a sight, stretched out there before her on the bed. She was quite certain he was unaware of what Auror training had done to his body, but the changes hadn't gone unnoticed by her. He'd always been lean and lanky — traits she liked quite a lot — but the constant physical work, and his new habit of hitting the gym before and after shifts, had chiseled his previously slender form into something much more sculpted and powerful. His shoulders had broadened noticeably. His chest and abdomen were more defined, his arms, legs and neck more sinewy. And his skin, sprayed as it was with freckles, was so clear and remarkably soft. She had expected him to be hairier and was surprised to find, now that he was completely nude before her, that he wasn't. His cheeks and lips were as pink and inviting as always. And nowadays he favored wearing his hair shorter, after letting it grow long and shaggy during the war, though he kept his fringe long, in a way that reminded her very much of the way the Beatles wore their hair when they first hit the scene in the early '60s, though when she joked once about it months ago, he had no idea what he was talking about, never really having heard of the Beatles.

But obviously, the aspect of his anatomy that most called out for her attention at the moment was his erection — something she had fantasized about so constantly, for years. And yet, even in all the times she'd tried to picture what it might look like, what it might feel like, she had no idea how, well, impressive it was. His cock was, quite simply, large. Tremendously large. And surprisingly warm to the touch. And surprisingly firm, though the skin was surprisingly soft and silky. They key word here, she smiled to herself, was surprise — everything about his cock was surprising. It stood erect, at an angle slanting above his navel. It seemed to move of its own volition. When she had touched it earlier, she could have sworn she felt his pulse within it, and , judging by Ron's reaction, it was clear that even the slightest brush of her fingertips against its surface was pure ecstasy to him.

She couldn't help but grin at the thought. All this was hers. Hers. She could hardly believe this was her life — that the one boy she had wanted all her life was now stretched out in her bed and nearly desperate for her touch.

And then she realized that she was equally as desperate to touch him again. And so she reached out and placed her index finger on the tip of his cock, slightly shocked at the moistness she found there. She trailed her finger around and around the tip in circles, grinning as Ron clenched his eyes shut and buried his head in the pillows, moaning her name.

"Show me how to please you," she whispered, amazed that the words had slipped out as quickly as she'd thought them, before she'd had a chance to censor herself. She was gratified, however, to see Ron grin widely in response, his eyes still clamped shut. "Show me," she repeated, and he answered by reaching down to take her hand, adjusting her grip and guiding her as she stroked his shaft in a languid up-and-down motion. He breathed deeply through his nostrils as she picked up the pace, watching the expressions on his face shift as his body began to move in time with the rhythm of her hand movements. "I so want to make you feel good, Ronald," she whispered, and he moaned in such a deep, gravelly way that she could have sworn she felt it between her legs. She positively throbbed at the sound of his moans. She couldn't say where this particular bit of inspiration came from, but at one point she decided to experiment and bent over to place her lips at the tip of his cock, and he let out a long and low groan at the feeling of her warm tongue, her moist lips, encasing his head, even as her hand continued its mesmerizing motion.

Ron, meanwhile, was transported, captivated by the feeling of Hermione's hands and lips lovingly caressing his cock. Every now and then, he'd peer through his squinting eyelids to take in the dazzling sight of Hermione stroking him, sucking him … but mostly he kept his eyes closed and savored the sensations, all the while moaning and whispering nonsensical phrases of encouragement — "yes, love" … "oh, that's so good" … "you drive me wild, Mione." Before too long, the pleasure built to a point where he couldn't hold himself back any longer, and the release that shook his body as his orgasm overtook him was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He had only had a moment to warn Hermione, croaking "yes, that's right … don't stop … I'm going to come, love," in a raspy voice, and he had expected that she would pull her lips away — but, instead, she pressed her mouth even more firmly to him and swallowed deeply, a feeling that quite literally took his breath away.

Panting vigorously, his body humming with pleasure, he slowly came down from his high with Hermione in his arms. She had collapsed next to him and curled up against his chest, and he had instinctively wrapped his arms around her tightly and pulled her to him so that her face was now buried in the crook between his chin and his shoulder.

"Holy Merlin," Ron breathed. "Hermione … my Mione … there's no way you could know … I'm sure you have no idea how many times I've dreamed of this."

She laughed and kissed his neck. "I think I have _some_ idea."

He squeezed her shoulders. "OK, maybe you do. But, oh gods, even though you have starred in each and every wanking session, each and every wet dream … it was never this good. Never."

She was a bit shocked to hear this admission — that she, not Lavender, not Fleur, not Madam Rosmerta, just she — had been the subject of his sexual fantasies, but she decided she'd ask him about that later. For now … she preferred to press her ear to his chest, to listen to the thumping of his heart and the rhythm of his breathing as he came back down to earth.

After a few minutes, he lifted her chin and met her eye. "I love you, you know," he said. "So, so much." And he planted a kiss on her lips, sinking the fingers that he'd used to tip her chin upwards deep into her long, curly hair.

They snogged just so for several minutes, Ron slowly gaining the upper hand as he regained his strength, and soon Hermione was pinned beneath him, enjoying the feeling of his weight upon her, a sensation that she already knew was always going to be a favorite.

Ron had been running his hands up and down her back, but then he pulled one hand forward and reached down between her legs, stroking her there rather firmly. The feeling of his fingers against her warm and throbbing core was exquisite, but …

"Wait," she said without thinking, placing her hand over his and stilling his movements.

He pulled his hand away from her as if he'd been scalded. What she didn't know — at least at first — was that he was kicking himself for getting carried away. He had crossed a line, somehow, and he berated himself for breaking his own vow to himself to remain in control, to keep from doing anything that would make her uncomfortable.

She instantly regretted having stopped him so abruptly, and sat up to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry, Ron, I didn't mean—"

"No, no, I'm the one who's sorry, Hermione, really," he said, cutting her off.

"No, please listen, Ron," she said firmly. Her tone surprised him, and his eyes were drawn to hers immediately.

"Please listen," she continued in a more soothing tone. "I shouldn't have done that. I know you were just trying to make me feel … the way I made you feel … and I appreciate that, darling, I really do. You didn't do anything wrong."

Ron shook his head, his brow wrinkled with confusion. "So why did you stop me, then?"

She thought about it. Why _did_ she stop him? As she pondered the question, she absent-mindedly traced the muscles of his arm with her fingertips. Then the answer came to her — very slowly, but it came.

"I think I need a little more time before I can, um, let go … before I can let go in that way with you," she said. "I know you'll think it's mad, but I'm not sure I'm ready to let you see me that way yet. It's hard to explain."

He stilled her hand with his, then lifted it to his lips and kissed her palm. "You don't have to explain. It's OK. I think I get it. And even if I didn't — it's your body, Hermione. You get to say what happens to it. You and no one else. All right?"

She choked back a sob and nodded, throwing herself back against his chest and clinging to him tightly as he wrapped his arms back around her. "I love you so much, Ronald Weasley," she said as he kissed her forehead, her temple, her cheek and the top of her head.

"I love you too, Hermione," he answered. "Let's get ready to sleep now, eh?"

She laughed against his neck. "That's probably a good idea. If we're going to endure everyone's scrutiny at the Burrow tomorrow, we could probably use all the rest we can get tonight."


	22. Chapter 22

Sunday dawned cloudy, and the two of them awakened, still giddy at the newness of it all, cradled in one another's arms with no real plans in their heads other than to Apparate to the Burrow at 3 o'clock or so for the weekly dinner with the Weasleys. As they lolled about in bed that morning discussing their options — that is, when they weren't blissfully snogging — it dawned on Hermione that they had time to pop 'round her parents' house for lunch. Ron agreed that as long as his family was about to be let in on their news, it was only fair for the Grangers to have their share in it.

When they arrived in Cambridge, Ron noticed his heart was beating double-time, but he needn't have worried.

"Oh my goodness!" Eleanor exclaimed at seeing the two of them stroll through the front door hand-in-hand. Before Hermione could say more than "Hello, Mum," Eleanor leapt from her reading chair and shouted up the staircase in the front hallway: "Hugh! Hugh, come quick! It's finally happened!"

Ron and Hermione, still standing in the foyer, exchanged a quizzical look, though they were soon distracted by the sight of Hugh exiting his study and bounding down the stairs to meet them. "What's happened?" Hugh huffed — but then, his eyes landed on Ron and Hermione's joined hands, and he broke into a wide grin. "Hang on," Hugh said, pointing from one to the other. "Are you two, um …"

Hermione looked down at her hand, still nestled in Ron's, then flicked her eyes up to Ron's face, her heart warming at the sight of his broad grin. She squeezed Ron's hand, then looked back to her father and nodded.

Hugh, for his part, laughed out loud. "About time, Ronald, and well done," he boomed, slapping Ron hard on the back — so hard that Ron stumbled forward slightly. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to find the nerve."

By this point, Hermione's cheeks were blushing furiously, and Ron noticed that his ears had heated up to a nearly unbearable temperature — but the experience of revealing their new status to the Grangers was nothing compared to what came later at the Weasley residence.

In fact, Hugh and Eleanor — bearing in mind Molly and Arthur's standing invitation to join the family for their informal Sunday dinners at the Burrow anytime they liked — Side-Alonged with Hermione and Ron to Devon after lunch. The Grangers simply couldn't resist the opportunity to see the Weasleys' reaction, especially since the long-expected-but-never-realized romance between their children had been the subject of more than one whispered conversation between the two sets of parents.

At first, Molly had been so distracted by welcoming the Grangers when they landed on the front lawn that she hadn't noticed anything unusual, and neither did Arthur when he emerged from his shed, wiping axle grease off his hands and hurrying forward to give Hugh a hearty handshake. Percy and Audrey bustled out of the house next, followed by Bill and Fleur, and there was so much enthusiastic chit-chat bouncing back and forth between the various Weasleys and Hermione's parents that no one spotted the moment when Ron reached over and wrapped his arm around Hermione's shoulder and pulled her close — no one, that is, except George, who had just stumbled through the front doorway of the house at that moment and, gobsmacked, burst forth with a loud "Oi!" that captured everyone's attention.

"I spy with my little eye," said George, his grin widening as he sauntered down the stairs and approached the group, "a certain brother of mine with his arm draped around the graceful shoulders of a certain brilliant witch. All I want to know, Ron, is what kind of specialized Auror Department Confunding spell did you put on Granger, and is there a way it can be replicated for commercial use?"

Ron smiled back at George, rather surprised at himself for not feeling the least bit embarrassed to be called out in this way in front of the entire gathering. But that had been his intention, actually, when he was so bold as to pull Hermione close. It was time for everybody to know that he and Hermione were together. The trouble was, no one seemed surprised that Ron and Hermione fancied each other. What positively amazed everyone, however, was that Ron and Hermione both now seemed to be in on the worst-kept secret in the wizarding world — and were doing something about it.

"About bloody time!" Bill shouted as he pantomimed strangling Ron by the neck and then opened his arms to encase Hermione in a giant hug.

"Yep, that's almost exactly what I said," Hugh said with a laugh.

"Merlin's beard, Ron, I thought you'd _never_ figure it out," George chimed in.

"Oh, stop," said Hermione, swatting playfully at George's arm. "Ron wasn't the only one who needed to sort this out, you know."

"Don't worry, Hermione, I know all that," George replied. "You had your head stuck firmly up your arse, too."

"George!" Arthur chided, but the smile on his face suggested he wasn't as annoyed with George as he sounded.

Molly, meanwhile, had already dissolved into a puddle of tears, and once the shouts and back-slapping died down, she stepped forward and took Hermione into a mighty hug. "Oh, my dear girl," was all she could say, in a voice choked with emotion. Hermione, for her part, was almost equally as teary as Molly was all of a sudden. The depth of Molly's reaction had moved her more than she expected.

Just then, Harry and Ginny, who had been out for a fly, landed on the front lawn and strode over to the group, tossing their broomsticks aside and sizing up the situation.

Ginny was wearing an open-mouthed grin. Harry, meanwhile, displayed a knowing smirk.

"Wait, what?" was all Ginny could sputter as she eyed Ron's arm clamped firmly around Hermione's shoulders, both mothers' teary expressions, and everyone else's silly smiles. "Are you serious?" Ginny continued. "Really?"

Hermione nodded, then looked up to give Ron a smile before returning her gaze to Ginny. "Really," Hermione replied.

Ginny gasped, covering her mouth with both hands, before running forward and throwing her arms around Hermione, a gesture that nearly knocked Ron sideways. "Oh, Hermione! I thought you two would _never_ sort it out!" Ginny shouted into Hermione's ear as she hugged her tight.

The whole crowd laughed. "You are not the only one, Ginevra," said Fleur with a smile.

Harry stepped toward Ron and punched him on the shoulder — hard. "This explains why I haven't laid eyes on you all weekend," he said. Harry immediately regretted saying that, however, when Bill shouted, "Well well well!" and George let out a long, low whistle. Ron's ears turned beet red and Hermione pulled away from Ginny to smack Harry lightly on the chest.

"Shut up, you!" Hermione said playfully, and that seemed to cut the tension for Ron — though he still found it difficult to look in Hugh's direction after Harry had given such an obvious clue as to what he and Hermione had been up to for the past few days.

After a while, Ginny spirited Hermione up to her room, telling the rest of the family that she was on a fact-finding mission as she dragged Hermione up the stairs by the elbow. Since the slight rainfall that had marred the morning had lifted, Ron and Harry took that opportunity to wander out back toward the pond while the rest of the family drifted inside the house to have a celebratory butterbeer.

"So," said Harry, burying his hands in his pockets as the duo strolled down the hill.

"So," Ron said, doing likewise, a slight smile lighting his face.

There was a long pause as they both scanned the horizon, walking slowly toward no destination in particular.

"So, what finally did it?" Harry asked. He knew he was prying, but he just couldn't stop himself. After watching his two best friends fancy one another — and hurt one another — for so long, he simply had to know. "It's none of my business, really," he added after an uncomfortable pause, not knowing that Ron fully intended to answer, but just wanted to choose his words carefully.

Ron kicked a rock. "Well, um, it's complicated," he said.

"Complicated? You and Hermione? Impossible," Harry replied, and Ron couldn't help but laugh.

"Hey, if there's anyone who's entitled to know, it's you," Ron said after a bit. "After all, you had a front-row seat to our entire drama over all these years."

"No kidding."

"Honestly, I didn't see it coming," Ron continued. By then, they had reached the pond and walked out onto the pier. They sat cross-legged at the end — it was a bit too cool to take off their shoes and dangle their feet in the water — and Ron decided to start at the beginning, taking Harry back to the events of Friday evening, having to stop to calm Harry down now and then as the details of what Thayer did to Hermione unfolded.

"Holy shit," Harry said when Ron had finished. "Thayer — that bastard. I've half a mind to Apparate over to his flat right now and break his nose again for him."

"I won't stop you," Ron said, "but honestly, I think the best thing at this point is to go to Brocklehurst tomorrow and open a formal complaint against the guy. If he's capable of doing that to a woman — especially one he was recently assigned to _protect,_ for Merlin's sake — then the git shouldn't be an Auror."

Harry nodded, taking a deep breath and running his fingers through his hair in frustration. "He violated at least three department regulations that I can think of — not to mention breaking several wizarding laws," he said. "Brocklehurst will want to question him under Veritaserum, you know."

Ron looked down at the pier beneath him and picked at a splinter sticking out from a nearby plank. "Yeah, the Auror Handbook certainly allows it. He'll be drummed out of the Corps for sure."

Harry looked at Ron, his brow wrinkled in confusion.

"That's a good thing, right?" Harry said. "I mean, bloody hell, the guy should probably spend some time in Azkaban for good measure."

Ron nodded and then cast his eyes toward the opposite shore of the pond. "I agree, but I'm not sure how Hermione will feel about taking the complaint beyond the Auror Commander's Office. I have a feeling she's, well … she keeps trying to sound more or less unfazed by what happened, and it's still a little soon yet, I know. But I wouldn't be surprised if she wants to keep it quiet. She can be a pretty private person, after all, and Merlin only knows what the Prophet would do with a story like this," he said. "It could get ugly for her, and I don't want that."

Harry sighed and fiddled with the laces of his trainers. "Shit. I hadn't thought of that."

"Yeah," Ron said absent-mindedly.

There was a long silence, which Harry then broke. "But hey, why are we sitting here like the world just ended? We should be happy, right?"

Ron brightened. "I _am_ happy, really," he said, turning to face Harry for the first time since they arrived at the pier. "I didn't think I was capable of being this happy. I'm stupid happy. I just … well, you're the only person I could tell this to, know what I mean? I guess I'm angry that this shite with Thayer is going to always be part of our story. We got together because that arsehole pulled what he pulled with her — really hurt her, though she keeps downplaying it — and I just wish it didn't take something like that for us to get our heads on straight. Someday, you want to be able to tell your kids how you got together, you know? Sort of a drag to have to mention that it came about because some wanker took liberties."

Harry couldn't help but chuckle. "Wait — your kids?" he sputtered.

Ron stopped and realized what he'd just said. Bugger. Had he said that part out loud?

"All right, all right," Ron muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling in embarrassment. "Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself."

"Maybe," Harry said, biting his lip to try to stifle his grin. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take the mick. Hell, I should know better — George will be doing plenty of that over dinner."

Ron remained silent for a while longer, then spoke up again. "No worries, Harry. It's just — when I let myself think about what happened, I get so angry."

"I get it," Harry said quickly. "Don't forget, mate, Hermione's like a sister to me. This whole thing makes me angry, too. And I'll back you up every step of the way when you take this to Brocklehurst."

"Thanks, Harry. That means a lot."

Harry stretched, then replied, "But don't let this Thayer thing ruin it, man. You've dreamed of this for way too long to let Thayer or anyone else spoil it for you. Just, you know, be happy. You got what you wanted in the end, and so did Hermione."

Ron straightened up and scratched his head. "She did? Do you really think she did? Get what she wanted, I mean. You know, I keep worrying that maybe what she's feeling right now is just gratitude for what I did, and that eventually she might suss that out and, you know, change her mind, but maybe that's nuts—"

"Gah!" Harry groaned loudly, cutting Ron off. Harry grabbed his hair with both fists and then dropped his head and laughed in exasperation, before straightening up to reach around and slap Ron on the back of the head. "Are you absolutely, positively, completely and totally mental?" Harry nearly shouted, ignoring Ron's muttered "ouch" and the slight, playful shove that Ron gave him in return. "Is it really possible that you don't know how much Hermione's always fancied you?" Harry continued. "Are you honestly that dense?"

All Ron could do is shake his head, feeling his ears burn.

"Merlin's tits, Ron, Hermione's been hoping you'd look her way for years," Harry said. "She loves you, mate. And I know you feel the same. Always have."

Ron nodded, grinning despite himself. "OK, you win," he said.

"Just remember, though," Harry added as they pulled themselves back up to their feet to head back toward the house, "Hermione _is_ my sister, you know. You hurt her and I'll have to thump you."

Ron nudged Harry with his shoulder as they stepped off the pier and back onto the shore. "Don't worry. I plan to do whatever it takes to keep her happy."

Harry smiled. "You do make her happy, you know," he said quietly.

"Thanks, Harry," Ron answered at nearly a whisper, sinking his hands into his pockets as they strode slowly back up the hill. "I hope so."

They were nearly back to the house when Ron remembered something important — and rather awkward — that he had meant to say before then. He cleared his throat and stopped, causing Harry to stop and look at him questioningly.

"Umm, Harry, I'm sorry but, well … I don't want you to think I haven't appreciated your hospitality at Grimmauld Place, because I have … but … well … I'm going to be moving out," he said sheepishly.

Harry tried his best to keep a straight face, waiting a few beats before speaking.

"Moving out? Where to?" he asked.

Ron, for his part, turned pale and sputtered, his mouth flapping open and shut a few times before Harry succumbed to laughter, bending over and chuckling loudly.

"Up yours, Harry," Ron said. "Up yours with a crooked broomstick," he added before exploding in laughter himself.

After dinner, Arthur Side-Alonged Hermione's parents back to Cambridge while Ron Flooed back to Grimmauld Place to gather his stuff, tossing it all into his trunk and Vanishing it to Hermione's flat. Then he Flooed back to the Burrow, where he and Hermione said their goodbyes and endured yet another round of ribbing, especially from George and Harry.

When they arrived back at the flat over Wheezes, Hermione paused to brush the Floo powder off her shoulders before reaching out and grabbing Ron's hand.

"I want you to know," she said, looking up at him bashfully through her lashes, "that I, um, that I'm glad you're going to be staying here with me now."

Her tone was so sweet, her posture so uncertain, her words so simple and innocent — Ron was a bit taken aback by it all, and he chided himself for getting choked up yet again. But it couldn't be helped. It had been a wild weekend, full of unpredictable events, and as he spied his trunk, standing where it had landed earlier by the front door, he realized that this moment was really the beginning of an entirely new chapter of his life — and he reckoned that this realization was dawning on Hermione as well.


	23. Chapter 23

Hermione had watched from Ginny's bedroom window as Ron and Harry ambled toward the pond. She was listening to Ginny, of course, but she couldn't stop her eyes from following "her boys" as they wandered down the grassy hill. How many times had she viewed them from this vantage point before, she wondered — the two of them bouncing along side-by-side, Ron's fiery locks bobbing alongside Harry's unruly mop of black hair. Ron, she noticed, had grown to the point where he was now a good head taller than Harry … his shoulders had widened … his stride had lengthened … and his movements, once somewhat clumsy and awkward, had become more graceful and elegant, the result of his Auror training, she reckoned … but —

"Oi, Hermione!" Ginny said with a chuckle, waving her hand in front of Hermione's face. "I'm over here, girlfriend."

Hermione felt her cheeks heat up as she sputtered out an apology.

"No worries. I can see you're easily distracted nowadays," Ginny said with a smirk as Hermione tucked her hair behind her ears and turned her body to face away from the window.

By this point, Hermione had already walked her through the main events of the past few days —reveling in the feeling of finally being able to compare notes with her best girlfriend over such happy news — but she had hesitated when it came to the details that Ginny _most_ wanted to know.

"So … you went on a hike yesterday and — just let me be sure I've got this straight — Ron is moving in with you?" Ginny asked.

Hermione nodded sheepishly, wringing her hands in mild embarrassment. "I know it will probably seem too soon, but, well … it just feels like the right thing to do," Hermione said, cracking into a slight grin. "I've decided I'm going to listen to my heart for a change, rather than always giving preference to my head."

"Well, I for one don't think it's too soon," said Ginny, flopping back onto her bed and folding her hands behind her head. "You two have known each other for so long — have fancied one another for so long — why act like you've only just met?"

Hermione, sitting on the chair next to Ginny's desk, fingered the bottom button of her cardigan. "It's funny you say that, because the change in our, um, _status_ has created some awkwardness here and there — almost as if we really _are_ just getting to know one another. You'd think it wouldn't be possible to be shy or nervous around someone you've known since you were 11, but somehow … it's almost like we can't believe it's finally really happening. Does that make any sense?"

Ginny sat up and leaned toward Hermione, all kidding aside — for the moment. "Honestly, it does make sense," she said. "Harry and I experienced a bit of that at first, but I'm sure it was nothing compared to what you guys are going through. It's a big leap."

"Mmm," Hermione hummed, feeling yet another wave of awkwardness wash over her as she recognized what she was really thinking about. She said a short prayer that Ginny never learned Legilimency.

Hermione was thinking about how embarrassed she felt about … how mortifying it would be if … if Ron saw her … in, in, in … how did all the romance novels put it? In _rapture_ — that's it. Would he think she was weird or funny-looking? Would he think she was a tart for even, well, having experienced that feeling before — even if she was totally alone at the time? Or would the fact that she had felt that way alone make him think she was a pervert? Oh dear…

She was lost in these thoughts, not noticing that she had been pulling at the button on her cardigan — that is, until Ginny reached over and stopped her. "Sweet Merlin, Hermione, you're going to tear this button straight off," Ginny said before waving her wand over the cardigan and repairing the frayed threads. "What's the matter?"

Hermione laughed at herself and sighed, crossing the room to plop down on the bed next to Ginny.

"This is kind of difficult to discuss," Hermione said, forcing herself to continue as Ginny gave her an encouraging smile.

"It's about sex, isn't it?" Ginny said, grinning wickedly.

"Ginny!" Hermione gasped, looking around as if someone could hear.

"Hermione, you haven't been faking it, have you?" Ginny blurted in response, grabbing Hermione by the shoulder and shaking her.

"Oh my God, no!" Hermione said quickly, then blushed an even deeper shade of red when she realized what she'd just implied. "No! That is, we haven't … I haven't even … I haven't let him see me … do that …"

Ginny dissolved into giggles, but pulled herself together when she saw that Hermione most definitely wasn't laughing. "I'm sorry," Ginny muttered. "OK, OK … just for a few minutes, I'm going to try to pretend that this involves anyone other than my brother, all right? Let's talk about it, because obviously it's bothering you."

Hermione smiled, but her reddened cheeks told Ginny that she wasn't entirely comfortable with this discussion.

"You two haven't, um, done it yet, I take it," Ginny continued in a calmer tone.

Hermione shook her head. "It's not that I don't want to," she said after a brief pause. "It's just that, I'm not sure I want him to see me, you know, in that moment."

Ginny's said a silent "oh," and nodded in recognition. Finally, _finally_ she had an idea of what was troubling her friend, and she felt she could do something to help. The thought made Ginny's heart leap a bit. She could finally be useful to Hermione after so many years of it being the other way around.

"Hermione," Ginny said, taking Hermione's nearest hand and squeezing it between both of her own. "You've known Ron for, what, eight years or something like that, yeah? You've been to hell and back with him, right?"

Hermione nodded, biting her lower lip.

"Don't answer this right away. Really, really think about it," Ginny added. "But ask yourself: Do you trust him?"

Hermione's mind flitted over scenes from her years of friendship with Ron — including some moments she would rather forget — but her mind kept coming back to the same answer that popped into her head as soon as Ginny asked the question: She trusted Ronald Weasley implicitly. The damage done from his departure on the Horcrux hunt, however deep it once was, had healed over, and hindsight had allowed her to see that the cursed locket had done its job — breaking the trio apart and thus preventing them from destroying it — but only for so long. Ron overcame the locket's influence. He returned to them — to _her_ — against all odds. And not long after, he had offered to lay down his life for her — the slug-belching scene from second year writ large — as he pleaded for Bellatrix Lestrange to take him in Hermione's place. Time and again, in ways small and great, he'd placed himself in harm's way to protect her. She knew it in her bones. Ron was deeply and abidingly loyal to his closest friends and family, but he was especially so to her.

"I trust Ron with my life," Hermione said quietly, lifting her eyes from the floor to meet Ginny's. "It wasn't always that way," she continued. "He's hurt me over the years. We've hurt each other, actually. I've been wary of being hurt again, I think. But I know for a fact he'd never hurt me intentionally — not anymore. Especially not now that we understand one another."

Ginny couldn't help but smile. "All right, then," she said. "There's your answer."

Hermione's brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Trust him," Ginny added. "He won't judge you. He won't think less of you. You said it yourself just a little while ago: Listen to your heart. Take your time. And when you're ready, trust him. Believe me — I know Ron. He could never think badly of you, Hermione. Really."

Later that night, when Hermione and Ron landed back at the flat, Ginny's words rang in Hermione's ears. Take your time. Listen to your heart. Trust him.

Standing there before the hearth, she reached for his hand. "I want you to know," she said, "that I, um, that I'm glad you're going to be staying here with me now."

Ron smiled nervously. "Yeah?"

She let out a little puff of laughter, then said, "Yeah."

And, with that, she stepped back from him, tugging gently on his hand and moving toward the bedroom. Ron, of course, followed, his heart fluttering in his chest.

Hermione backed along the hallway and through the bedroom door, stopping by the bed.

Ron stood frozen in place, his hand still in hers. He reminded himself that he had privately vowed to let her take the lead. So he stayed still, trying to control his breathing, as Hermione looked first at their joined hands, then lifted her eyes to search his face. After a moment, he noticed the shy smile warming her face, and he knew his own smile was growing in response.

"I love you, Ron, so much," Hermione whispered.

"I love you, too. Like mad," Ron said. He wondered if there was more he could or should say at a moment like this, but nothing came to him. There were no better words for what he was feeling at the moment. He loved her, and he couldn't say it enough.

"Well then," she replied quietly, leaning forward to surround his lips with hers, gently at first, but before long the contact melted something in her — the thing, whatever it was, that had been holding her back — and she found herself pulling closer to him, letting go of his hand and wrapping her arm around his middle while reaching up with her other hand to brush his cheek with her fingers.

The feel of Hermione's fingers on his skin emboldened Ron to loop his arms around Hermione's waist and press her against him, and he moaned deeply as Hermione answered him in kind, clutching him with both arms now and opening her lips as he deepened the kiss. Soon, Ron's arms were roaming up and down Hermione's back, sometimes gripping her bum, sometimes planted deep in her hair as he cupped her neck. Hermione, meanwhile, was vaguely aware that she was so carried away that her legs could hardly support her — and yet it didn't matter, since Ron was very nearly holding her up, so tightly was he clutching her to his chest. She felt his hardness against her belly, and the knowledge of what she was feeling sent pleasant shivers throughout her body. He wanted her and, for the first time, she knew, really knew, that she wanted him. She was ready.

Knowing this made it easier to take the next step. She looped her arms around Ron's neck and, bless him, he took the hint, lifting Hermione in his arms and depositing her gently on the bed, even as she continued to kiss and nuzzle his lips, his chin and his neck. He stretched himself out atop her on the bed, keeping pace with her as he lowered his lips to her ear and then the tender flesh at the junction of her neck and her shoulder, and then down to where the fabric of her blouse impeded his progress, just above her breast.

As he covered her exposed skin in kisses, she threaded her fingers through his hair, breathing in deeply through clenched teeth and marveling at the warmth that flooded her body from head to toe. The feeling of being tucked beneath him, with nearly his entire weight pressing upon her, was mesmerizing — and she found that she wanted more. She wanted to feel his skin against hers.

Her heart, she decided, would be her guide from this point on.

She reached down, levering her hand between their bodies, and unbuttoned his jeans. Ron, momentarily stunned by this new development, pulled back and looked Hermione in the eye, wordlessly asking, Are you sure?

She met his eyes and nodded as if to say, Yes, very sure, and Ron grinned widely in response. "I love you, Hermione Granger," he said hoarsely, then kissed her soundly before she had an opportunity to reply.

She chose instead to continue her task, pulling down his zip and reaching around to tuck her fingers beneath the hem of his jeans and stroke the top of his bum, noting how firm and muscular the flesh was there. She hummed involuntarily against his lips at the thought.

Ron, meanwhile, had work of his own to do, and he set about unbuttoning her blouse, peppering each newly exposed inch of skin with kisses as he went.

Within minutes, they were both nearly starkers, Ron clad only in his boxers, Hermione down to her jeans, which she soon shimmied out of, leaving her knickers in place for the moment. After much heated snogging, she wanted to catch her breath. And, besides, one of them needed to find a wand amidst the rumpled pile of clothes that had dropped to the floor and perform the Contraception charm.

"Do you know it?" Ron gasped as he tried to steady his breathing, flopping down to lie on his back next to Hermione.

She smirked, raised herself up on one elbow and extended her hand to Ron for a handshake. "Hermione Granger," she said with a note of playful sarcasm. "Charmed to make your acquaintance."

Ron, laughing loudly despite his lack of breath, took her hand and shook it heartily. "Touche, love."

That was Hermione's cue to reach down and grab a wand — as it happened, she found Ron's — and wave it over Ron's middle. "Conceptium Protego," she whispered.

Ron watched as she did so, fascinated. He and Lavender had gone pretty far, but never quite this far, so he'd never seen — or felt — the Contraception charm before. He was surprised at the cool shock that came over his scrotum, but relieved when it subsided almost as quickly.

Meanwhile, there was the not-so-small matter of what to do next. Hermione had deposited his wand on the nightstand and was settling in next to him, resting her cheek on the back of her hand against the pillow.

Ron rolled over on his side to face her. "You're so beautiful," he said as he reached over and twirled a lock of her hair between his fingers, noticing how golden her curls looks in the lantern light, how luscious her breasts were, how sweet her expression. His heart thumped as the import of the moment, of what they were about to do, crashed over him.

At hearing Ron say she was beautiful, Hermione's first instinct would have been to argue or deny it, but the truth was, she was too captivated by Ron's own beauty to do much more than smile. The way he looked in the dim light of her room was overwhelming. Lying on his side, the angle of his torso was that much more pronounced, and the muscles of his arms seemed even more chiseled in the semi-darkness. "You are …" she said distractedly, hardly knowing that she had begun to speak out loud. "You are … it's just unreal being here with you like this," she finally continued after shaking her head slightly to clear it. "You're stunning, Ronald. I don't think I've ever told you, have I."

A warm smile lit Ron's face — and though her compliment caused his ears to burn, he ignored them and captured her lips with his. Before long — and neither would be able to remember quite how — Ron's boxers disappeared, as did Hermione's knickers as they sometimes slowly, sometimes frantically explored one another's bodies with their hands and lips.

Ron wasn't thinking so much as acting on instinct at this point, drawing on his well of experience, such as it was via months of dating Lavender Brown, as well as his much deeper reserve of brotherly advice. Lavender, for all her faults, was an enthusiastic instructor, and he hoped what she had taught him about what felt good and what didn't would apply to Hermione.

Still kissing her deeply, Ron pressed forward, nudging Hermione slightly so that she was stretched out flat on her back as he towered over her, his upper body perched on one elbow. Slowly, gently, he ran his free hand from her neck, where he had been cradling her chin, and traced over her shoulders, then her breasts, and gradually let his hand slide lower until he had reached the point where her legs met her belly.

He tenderly slipped his finger between her legs, a motion that coaxed a deep moan from Hermione, and he smiled to himself at this sign that he was on the right track. What he didn't know, of course, was that it had taken every ounce of Gryffindor courage that Hermione could muster to simply let go, allow him to touch her there, and give herself over to the sensation of it all — though as he worked his finger deeper into her folds, Hermione's reticence began to melt, and soon she was hypnotically moving her hips in time with his strokes, clutching his shoulders tightly as he buried his face in the space between her head and her shoulder and began whispering encouragement into her ear — that is, when he wasn't running his tongue over her earlobe or sucking tenderly on the pulse point at the side of her neck.

"Hermione, you're so beautiful, so sexy," he murmured against her skin. "I've always wanted to be with you this way, love, always."

She shuddered and moaned beneath him, grinding her hips against his hand.

"That's right," he continued. "Let go, sweetheart. Let go and let me make you feel good."

Hermione, by this point, had nearly forgotten to be embarrassed. The feeling of Ron's large, warm fingers moving rhythmically over her core overruled every other sensation, every other emotion.

Ron's faculties were somewhat more intact at that moment. He had sensed that Hermione felt funny about letting him see her lose herself in passion, and he had decided, well before this moment, that he would shower her with affection and support in hopes that it would help her be more comfortable.

"Gods, you drive me mad, Mione," he murmured next to her ear. "I want you so much, love. So much. You're so fucking sexy."

To Hermione, Ron's words were almost as potent as his pulsating caress, the feel of his lips brushing against her skin, the warmth of his body and the depth of his voice. Her breath quickened, her legs tensed, and soon she felt herself sliding toward her release, her back arching as she cried out, clutching Ron's arm tightly in both hands.

It took Hermione a while to come down from her high, her eyes clamped shut, as her breath gradually evened out. As she did, Ron pulled her close, burying his face in her curls and nuzzling her neck. He smiled to himself. He couldn't help it — he'd wanted to give her pleasure, he was pretty sure he had, and he was chuffed about it.

Hermione, meanwhile, had broken into a wide grin, though her eyes remained closed. Ron eventually lifted his head, spied her expression, and barely stifled a laugh. "Feel good?" he asked.

"Mmmmmmm," she hummed, stretching and turning in his arms as her eyes slowly opened. "So good," she added, biting her lower lip as she looped her arms around his neck. "Very, very good."

Her confirmation that he had indeed hit the spot, so to speak, energized Ron, and he dove in for a deep and lingering kiss — one she happily returned. After rolling and tumbling back and forth across the bed several times, they finally reached the moment when Ron was poised atop Hermione, her legs wrapped around his middle, and Ron pulled back one last time to be sure this was what she wanted before he moved another muscle.

Her answer was to smile and look deep into his eyes, ignoring the rapid rise and fall of her chest, so winded was she from their snogging. She studied him — they studied one another, actually, once again appreciating the enormity of the change in their relationship, while also pausing to consider the giant step they were about to take.

After a minute or so, Ron broke the silence.

"Are you sure?"

She lifted her hand to stroke the stubble on his jawline and then nodded quickly.

"It might — I hear that it might hurt a bit, maybe at first. For you, I mean," Ron said, his brow furrowing in concern.

Hermione pressed her palm to his cheek, then slid it down the side of his neck to his shoulder. "So I've been told," she whispered. "But I think it'll be all right. The Contraception charm is supposed to help with that a little bit." She chuckled slightly and added, "I think it helps, though, that you made certain that I'm, um, _ready._ "

Ron was momentarily distracted by feeling his ears heat up at this observation — but not so distracted that he missed her next words: "And I _am_ ready, Ron. Honestly."

That was all Ron needed to hear. Hermione Granger, the girl he'd loved for years, the star of his every sexual fantasy, the woman he hoped he might be lucky enough to marry one day, was pinned beneath him and telling him that she was ready — ready to make at least one dream of his come true. His cock, then nuzzled against her warm and wet center, throbbed in anticipation.

"I love you, Hermione Granger," he whispered against her lips as he nuzzled his nose against hers. "I always have and I always will." He kissed her then — deeply — and positioned himself at her opening. He pulled his mouth away from her lips, then confessed, "I may not be so great at this at first."

She smiled and nudged his nose with hers. "We have all our lives to practice, darling," she replied as she draped her arms around his neck.

Ron then slipped himself inside Hermione's opening, hesitating when he met a certain slight resistance. She had tensed momentarily, but then she quietly urged him on, assuring him that she was all right. Then and only then did he push forward, breaking through and then marveling at the overwhelmingly warm and tight and thrilling sensation of being one with her, his cock entirely surrounded by her warmth. "Hermione," was all he could say in a long, drawn-out sigh as he buried himself as deep inside her as he could go before pulling back and gently doing it again. "Oh, gods, Mione, you feel … oh, sweet Merlin, you feel so incredible, love," he murmured as Hermione wrapped her legs more tightly around his bum and stroked his hair with her fingers.

Hermione, for her part, was mesmerized by the sensation of being entirely surrounded by Ron — his broad chest pressed against her, his muscular arms wrapped firmly around her. The feeling of his weight atop her torso was surprisingly thrilling, the blissful look on his face — when she could see it — melted her heart. But, of course, the most amazing experience of all was the his manhood moving deep inside her — deep because, as she'd already learned, Ron was as well-endowed as she had always fantasized that he would be and then some. The discomfort she had felt at the beginning had given way to a warm sensation that she knew wouldn't transport her to an orgasm — and angle just wasn't quite right — but the closeness, the intimacy, the contact … not to mention the joy of knowing that he was enjoying her body so completely … was all exhilarating nevertheless.

"I love you, Mione … always … forever," he moaned between kisses.

"Oh Ron," Hermione breathed, "always, always."

As Hermione brushed her hands across Ron's broad back, he gradually picked up the pace of his movements, thrusting deeper and faster. His mind, addled as it was, could only focus on one thing: Hermione Granger, the girl of his dreams, had given herself to him … totally … and the very thought filled him with such joy, such elation … he couldn't hold it back anymore … and very soon, a tremendous wave of pleasure crashed over him, and he exploded deep inside her, helplessly moaning her name against her cheek as she showered kisses over his chin, his neck and his shoulders.

Eventually, Ron settled onto the bed next to Hermione and, as she brushed the hair from his forehead and kissed the tip of his nose, he pulled her close until she was settled in the crook of his arm, her hand resting on his chest, her leg draped lightly across his middle.

He breathed in deeply then exhaled slowly, finally saying, "Oh gods, Hermione, that was … Merlin, that was …"

Hermione giggled and kissed his neck.

"Wonderful …" she said softly. "Sweet, incredible and absolutely wonderful."

He squeezed her a bit tighter by the shoulders. "Precisely," he said.

A few moments passed as Hermione, her ear pressed to Ron's chest, listened to the sound of his heartbeat as it gradually slowed to a calmer state.

"So …" she breathed after a little while. "Was that … um … was that your first time?"

Ron swallowed, thinking about all the times he'd been the butt of jokes in the Aurors' locker room for being the only virgin on the squad. Most times, the ribbing was easy enough to shrug off, but sometimes it stung, and Harry was the only one who knew the real reason.

"Yeah," he finally rasped, his voice sounding surprisingly dry all of a sudden.

He had was positive this was Hermione's first time, but he didn't really want to ask. So he was relieved when she volunteered the information. They both privately celebrated that, after so many misdirections and bollixed chances, this was a first that they could actually share.

"I love you madly, Ronald," Hermione said, and he felt like the luckiest man in the world for being able to hear it, and she felt like the luckiest woman in the world for being able to say it.

oooOOOooo

A/N — We're getting close to the finish line! That said, please review ... I thrive on your feedback!

Cheers,

Holly.


	24. Chapter 24

She had cried when he first told her. Hard. In fact, he'd been a bit shaken by her reaction, as her face crumpled and the tears began to flow, her breathing labored through spasms of sobs — so much so that he'd wondered if he'd done the right thing.

But eventually, Ron was able to get a word in edgewise, and when he did, he was pleased to see Hermione's features soften and that the tears that had been rolling down her cheeks were not the result of sadness or anger but of relief and gratitude.

To be fair to her, it _had_ been a hell of a couple of days — an emotional roller-coaster, truth be told. She had a right to be a bit out of sorts.

He had half expected her to be cross with him, and couldn't help feeling relief that she apparently wasn't — but her anger would have been easier to deal with than her tears. Hermione-in-a-snit was more familiar terrain for Ron than Hermione-in-a-pool-of-tears. But there was nothing to be done for it. She had a right to be a bit angry if she'd chosen to be — in some ways, his actions went against her own instincts. But his duty, according to the Aurors' Handbook of Protocol, was clearly spelled out. Protocol, however, wasn't what motivated him to take action on this particular Monday morning. His duty, according to his own heart — a much higher authority than the Aurors' Handbook, as far as he was concerned — was to seek what measure of justice remained unfulfilled by his decision to plant his fist in the middle of Aris Thayer's face.

He'd set out that morning for work as usual, but knew that he would have to take a detour to Bernard Brocklehurst's office sometime that morning to report what he knew. The superintendent of the Auror Corps, a large brick house of a man, did not like to be kept in the dark for long on anything that affected his crew — and Ron knew that, given how quickly word tended to spread in this tight-knit organization, it wouldn't be long before Brocklehurst learned of what Ron had done to Thayer, and what prompted it, and he reckoned it was best to carry the news to Brocklehurst himself rather than to have it drift to him through the uncontrollable forces of gossip and innuendo. Hell, he'd already taken more of a risk than was probably wise by letting the matter rest for the course of a weekend.

"These are serious charges, Weasley, serious charges indeed," Brocklehurst said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers under his chin, his jaw set in a tight line. The truth was, Brocklehurst was deeply disturbed by Ron's allegations. Part of him sincerely hoped the report was false. Thayer was an excellent recruit — one of the best in his class. If he hadn't been, Brocklehurst wouldn't have trusted him with the Grangers' lives when they went on holiday to Spain.

That said, this was Ron Weasley sitting across from him — one third of the Golden Trio, and easily one of the most promising Auror prospects to come along in years. In fact, with the force so depleted, Brocklehurst had been entertaining the notion of moving Ron up the ranks on a somewhat accelerated course — and the way that the other Aurors responded to Ron's ideas, heeded his judgment, and respected his actions, Brocklehurst could easily imagine him running the entire Corps someday. On top of all this … the notion that anyone would dare presume to harm Hermione Granger made Brocklehurst's blood boil. His sense of honor made him bridle at the idea of any sort of sexual assault, of course, but on top of that, Hermione was a war hero who deserved nothing but the utmost respect from the entire wizarding world. And, besides, Brocklehurst happened to like Hermione personally. Over the past few months of working with her to rebuild the Ministry, he had come to like her very much indeed.

Fortunately for Brocklehurst, the Aurors' Handbook laid out a clear course of action and, in many ways, his next decisions were already made for him — just as much as Ron's had been. As an Auror — even an Apprentice Auror — it was Ron's duty to report any violations of the Auror Code to his superiors. And as head of the department, it was Brocklehurst's duty to investigate and to take the necessary punitive actions. Both he and Ron were well aware of this.

Brocklehurst sighed deeply and then drew in another deep breath.

"You know what this means, of course," Brocklehurst said on the exhale.

Ron nodded.

Ron realized Hermione was entitled to pursue her complaint against Thayer in Wizarding Court, but he also intuited that this was the last thing she wanted to do. The publicity would be brutal. But as a matter of Auror Corps discipline, the situation could be handled much more discreetly — and justice could still be done. Knowing Hermione's wish to keep this as quiet as possible, Ron reasoned that this was the best course.

Brocklehurst waved his wand to call in the assistant sitting outside in the office's antechambers.

Not a quarter of an hour later, Thayer had been summoned to Brocklehurst's office, as had Harry, who would be needed to serve as a witness, as the Aurors' Handbook required.

"That's a total lie," Thayer sputtered after being apprised of the charges being laid him. "It's her word against mine — and I say she's a bloody liar."

Ron, who had been standing across the room from Thayer, his fists clenched, leaned forward as if he'd like nothing better than to launch himself at Thayer and cave his face in again for him. But Harry grabbed Ron by the arm — perhaps more firmly than was really necessary — and Ron pulled back.

"Thayer, I'm disappointed to find that you must not have read your Handbook as closely as you should have during training," said Brocklehurst drily. "If you had, you'd know that your opinion of your accuser is hardly relevant." With that, he flicked his wand and Accioed a small glass vial, which flew to him from the credenza behind his desk. He pulled the stopper and extended the bottle to Thayer. No words were spoken, but the unmistakable purple color of the liquid inside left no question as to the bottle's contents.

"Veritaserum?" Thayer said at a near shout, his eyes darting from the bottle to Brocklehurst's face and back again. "You've got to be kidding me!"

"I can assure you, I am most serious, lad," Brocklehurst replied. "You should be well aware, Thayer, that an Auror accused of a felony is required to submit his or her memory of the incident under Veritaserum. Now if you would please stop wasting my time, I would ask you to drink this and then extract the relevant memory while I prepare the Pensieve."

Thayer, who had by then blanched to a pasty shade of white, shook with suppressed rage as he took he vial from Brocklehurst's extended hand. He looked at it closely, then cast his eyes about the room, as if searching for a way to avoid what he knew must come next.

Brocklehurst, by this time, was coolly setting up his Pensieve, showing no sign that he was even paying attention to Thayer's distress.

"And what the bloody hell are _they_ doing here, then," Thayer demanded, throwing a hard look at Ron and then Harry.

"Mr. Weasley is the reporting officer, Thayer, and Mr. Potter is here, as the Handbook requires, is to serve as a third-party witness to your Pensieve testimony," Brocklehurst answered as he calmly moved the Pensieve from the cabinet where it was stored to the top of his desk. "Drink up, Thayer, and let's get on with it."

Seeing no way to forestall the inevitable, Thayer drank the contents of the vial, gasping at the bitter taste.

"Relevant memory, please," Brocklehurst continued. "Friday evening, about 6:45 p.m."

Thayer's shoulders slumped. If there was a way out of this, he couldn't see one. Resigned, he raised his wand to his forehead and extracted the memory, carrying the thin silver thread of it from his temple and dropping it into the Pensieve, where it swirled and bubbled.

"You first, Thayer," Brocklehurst said, and Thayer bent and tumbled into the Pensieve. Brocklehurst cocked his head toward Ron and Harry, who dove in after Thayer, followed by Brocklehurst himself.

Hours later, Ron decided to take the Muggle way home, walking rather than Apparating from the Ministry, winding slowly through the back streets of the Diagon Alley district toward the flat above Wheezes, where he knew Hermione would be waiting for him since she'd promised to make a big dinner to celebrate their first workday as official roommates. She had planned to take the afternoon off — her first bit of time off since joining Kingsley's office — to shop and to otherwise putter about the flat, so delighted was she with the prospect of making the place homey for Ron.

The thought made him smile vaguely even now, as he shuffled over the paving stones of Diagon Alley, heedless of the stares of bypassers and the whispers of teen-aged witches who took notice of him, a bona fide celebrity, as he passed.

He needed the time that walking afforded him to think. He'd known the general outlines of what he would see when he plunged into the Pensieve — in fact, he'd been eager to look, to confirm his outrage, to fuel his anger against Thayer, that bastard.

He hadn't counted on how it would feel to actually _watch_ what Hermione had described. Seeing Thayer grab Hermione's wrist so forcefully was the first jolt … the look of fear in her eyes, a look Ron recognized, with a chill down his spine, as the expression quite like the one she bore when the Snatchers caught the trio back during the Horcrux hunt … the shock as Thayer pressed his physical advantage … the sound of her voice cracking in panic and rage … it was all Ron could do to repress his urge to charge across the room and give the real, live Thayer the thumping of his life. At one point, Ron caught sight of Harry and could tell immediately that he was wrestling with the same impulse: His best mate's eyes were wide, his lips drawn tight — so tight that they were almost white — and his hands were balled up into fists.

And yet, as they watched, Hermione had prevailed, fending off an attack by a trained Auror roughly six inches taller and a good four or five stone heavier than she was, at least. Watching her hex Thayer and then send him tumbling down the stairs sent a ripple of pride through Ron's chest, despite his jangling nerves. She truly was a marvel.

On Sunday night, he had assiduously avoided the topic of Thayer, the assault and what to do next, not wanting to spoil their joy over their new living arrangements. But the matter was inescapable, especially since Monday would be the first day that Ron expected to be back in the Auror Department with Thayer present, and so he broached the subject, however tentatively, over breakfast.

Hermione had made it abundantly clear, as she buttered her toast and sipped her tea, that she simply wanted the whole ugly episode to go away with as little fuss as possible. As far as she was concerned, she had handled the situation by hexing Thayer to within an inch of his life; no further justice was necessary. Ron could tell, from the artificially firm tone of her voice, that even she had underlying doubts about this line of thought. After all, if he was capable of doing this to Hermione, who was to say that he wouldn't do it again to someone else? And she knew the wizarding law as well as anyone — she was well aware that the oath Ron took when he became an Auror forbade him from looking the other way. He reckoned, however, that Hermione's reticence had as much to do with her embarrassment and chagrin at being thought of as a victim in some way as it did with her wish to avoid publicity at all costs. The war had thrust all three of them into the spotlight, and while Harry had a certain familiarity with the sensation, the attention had proved to be a nuisance to Ron and downright unsettling to Hermione. Her newfound fame had brought her no end of unwanted scrutiny, particularly from men, and her negative experiences with the Daily Prophet had only deepened her distaste for the wizarding press. He knew — they both knew — that a sexual assault case involving one of the Golden Trio would be a media extravaganza.

Ron shuddered at the idea, flipping the collar of his jacket up against his neck to block out a cold breeze as he continued his slow march toward the flat.

"I suppose you have to do what you have to do," Hermione had said that morning as they parted the Ministry atrium.

"You're right. I do," he had said. Then, taking both her hands in his and squeezing them firmly, he added, "but whatever I do, I'll try my damnedest to keep you out of it, OK?"

She had nodded, her lips set in a determined line, and squeezed his hands back before turning and heading toward the lifts.

Turning the corner toward Wheezes, he reminded himself for the hundredth time that taking the complaint to Brocklehurst was the right thing to do. When the Pensieve session was over, Thayer had been transported directly to Azkaban — Brocklehurst had seen to it personally — and his credentials as an Auror had been stripped permanently. Thayer was due to spend at least a year in custody. If Hermione had pursued a criminal prosecution in Wizarding Court, Thayer's punishment might have been more severe — but Hermione would have been punished in her own way, as well. No, Brocklehurst was right. This outcome was best for all involved. And Aris Thayer would certainly never work for the Ministry again. Good riddance, Ron thought.

After arriving home, enjoying Hermione's enthusiastic greeting and the kisses she showered on his lips, his nose and his cheeks, then taking a moment to savor the smell of what he guessed was cottage pie wafting from the kitchen, Ron took her by the hand and led her to the sofa.

Her expression shifted from a warm smile to a look of wariness. "You … you did something about Aris, didn't you?" she asked quietly, pressing her knees together primly and sitting on the edge of the sofa cushion with her back set as straight as a washboard.

Ron held her hand in both of his, turning it over and studying it, palm up, as if the answers to some sort of cosmic quiz might be scribbled there. "I did," he said quietly, still looking at her hand. "I said I would, and I did."

That's when Hermione's tears began to flow. "I had to do it, Hermione," he said plaintively, still clasping her hand in one of his while wrapping his other arm around her shoulder. "I had to, love. But I promise you, it will be all right. It will."

After much snuffling and carrying on, Hermione recovered her breath enough to speak again, looking up into his face with a crinkled brow and a protruding lower lip. "I suppose the Auror Handbook didn't give you much choice, did it," she said, sniffing again deeply.

Ron shook his head. "I didn't turn him in because of the Handbook, Hermione," he said quietly. "I turned him in because …"

Suddenly he realized that she had stopped shaking and sniffling and, in fact, she was gazing at him intently, focusing 100 percent of her attention on him. A thought flickered through his mind — good Godric, how many times in my life have I wanted to have her undivided attention like this? — but he shook it off and gathered his thoughts. He _knew_ why he had gone to Brocklehurst. But could he put it into words?

His mind returned to the countless times he had wanted to protect her — the few times when he had succeeded, and the far more frequent times when he had failed. Things had changed, though. Over the course of the past few days, something very important had shifted. The reality of it was still seeping into his consciousness, however slowly, but it was there, and he knew it: Her welfare in all its forms — that was his business now. And he hoped it always would be.

In the time it had taken to Ron to formulate these thoughts, Hermione's face had transformed yet again. The tears that had been spilling over onto her cheeks were pooling in her eyes now, and her lips were bent in the slightest of smiles.

"I did it because," he murmured, losing his train of thought momentarily, a bit hypnotized by her glance. "I did it because … you're mine," he added, his words sounding distant to his own ears, enraptured as he was by the soft shine of her eyes.

What Ron didn't know was that Hermione's heart had been slowly melting as he sat there reaching for words. It had started to dawn on her what Ron was going to say, even if she didn't know the exact way he might phrase it — he always did have a face like a billboard, Ron did.

So when he finally got around to putting it so simply — "you're mine" — she felt her heart pang so hard that she thought it might just stop on the spot.

"Oh, Ron," was all she could manage to say through a watery grin before leaning toward him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders, a fresh torrent of tears rising to her eyes. And soon, before she could piece together quite how, she was on his lap, enveloped in his arms, her face pressed against his neck as he pulled her close and ran his hands up and down her back, against the back of her neck, deep into her hair and back again toward her bum.

Something about the close contact brought forth the words that Ron had been struggling to grasp. "Mione, love, I didn't mean to make you cry," he said soothingly into her ear. "Honestly, I didn't."

She sniffled and muttered "it's OK" against the skin of his neck, smiling despite the tears.

"It's just that, blimey, it's my job now to make anyone who hurts you pay, know what I mean? And it's my job now to protect you, even if it's just from the Daily Prophet. And I should have told you exactly what I was going to do, but I was afraid you would try to stop me. I know you probably just wanted me to let it go and hope the whole thing would go away, but I just couldn't do that Hermione," he said, the words bubbling out of him, gaining speed and urgency. He so wanted her to understand — and still feared that she didn't. "I know you can take care of yourself, but you shouldn't have to do these things alone, love. Not anymore. Does that make any sense?"

Hermione leaned back then and looked up into his eyes, sliding one hand up to his cheek. Her smile surprised him slightly, but it was only a split second before he returned it.

"I love you so much, Ronald Weasley," she whispered. "So very, very much."

At that, Ron angled his head and nuzzled Hermione's nose with his before planting a soft kiss on her lips. She slipped her arms back around his shoulders and gripped him tightly, silently urging him to deepen the kiss — and he complied, gripping her waist and tugging her even closer, a movement that brought Hermione's bum into delectable contact with Ron's cock, which was gradually hardening beneath her. She smiled to herself, feeling a surge of power at the thought that she could cause such reactions in him with only the slightest movement. She shimmied her hips a bit, drawing a guttural sound from deep within Ron's throat. Another gentle shimmy, and Ron took matters into his own hands, dipping one arm beneath her knees and quickly rising to his feet with Hermione in his arms. She peeped in surprise but didn't protest, and Ron carried her swiftly to the bedroom and laid her gently atop the bed.

Over the many decades of her life to come, Hermione would often look back on this night as the first time she and Ron really and properly made _love_ in every sense of the word — not that the previous times weren't magnificent and special in their own right, but something about this time set the tone for the years ahead. She couldn't quite explain it, but something about Ron's actions that day, and they way he explained them, reinforced her trust in him to such a degree — well, she completely forgot to be ashamed, embarrassed or inhibited as they undressed one another, as Ron explored her body with his hands, his lips and his eyes, and as they became one. It was the first time she gave herself over to Ron completely, abandoning all other concerns, and the feeling was … sublime. He was _her man_ now, and she wanted little more than to be surrounded by him, consumed by him, savored by him. And she savored him in return.

Over the years, Hermione wasn't the only one who privately looked back on this particular evening with fondness. Ron felt the difference in their lovemaking that night, too, and treasured it as the moment when his understanding with Hermione deepened to the point where they both knew — though it went unsaid on that particular evening — that they were inseparable now.

They roused themselves to eat Hermione's cottage pie later that evening, then made love again before falling asleep in one another's arms. Well, actually, Hermione had drifted off before Ron did — there was still too much for him to think and feel, and so he had stretched out, Hermione lying snug against his chest, and turned the events of the previous few days over in his head. He marveled that Aris Thayer's bad behavior was the spark that lit the flame of his relationship with Hermione. He couldn't quite bring himself to feel thankful to Thayer for it — the thought of that git hurting Hermione made Ron physically queasy and always would — but he could at least be thankful that he himself had done what he needed to do, landing a well-aimed punch to the center of Thayer's face when it mattered most. And he was even more thankful that Hermione, quite miraculously, appreciated it.

~~ Finis ~~

_A/N — Hi there, lovely readers! This is the final chapter of "One Punch: A History." When I first outlined this story, I had intended to finish it in that chapter where Hermione heals Ron's bruised hand. But then … well … I couldn't resist the urge to continue. I hope you enjoyed it!_

_Many thanks for reading and taking the time to share your thoughts — and take care! If you liked this story, please share it with your Romione-loving friends._

_Cheers,_

_Holly._


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